


The Wisdom to Know the Difference

by Tartanshell



Category: Daredevil (2003), Daredevil (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Complete, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:41:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tartanshell/pseuds/Tartanshell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Office Hours."  Hank was the first person Peter told his biggest secret to. The person who showed Peter that coming out of the superhero closet could be pretty cool. But now Hank's going through something that makes the "to tell, or not to tell?" dilemma pretty ridiculous, and Peter finds himself struggling with the same old questions all over again. Only this time, it's not about coming out. It's about staying in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Buzz, Tingle, Crash

**Author's Note:**

> Timing, 'verses, and continuity: This story is a sequel to "Office Hours," and it would probably help a lot to read that first. "Office Hours" took place fall semester of Peter's junior year in college. "The Wisdom to Know the Difference" is set the following February. This is a blend of comicverse and movieverse, sort of my own personal, handwavy fanon. Roughly, it works out like this:
> 
> Spider-Man: Almost entirely movieverse. Takes place about two years after Spider-Man 1, but ignores the events of Spider-Man 2.
> 
> Daredevil: Movieverse compliant; takes place a few years after Daredevil. Uses bits of Daredevil: Yellow, but for the sake of my sanity (and Matt's), I'm ignoring the whole Karen thing.
> 
> X-Men: If you want this to line up with the movies, the best I can do is to say that this is pre-X1, and the Hank we saw on TV was a hologram or stand-in or something. However, my Hank is a good bit younger than he is in X3 and definitely influenced by comics (particularly Astonishing Hank). Also, Warren is present but a contemporary of Scott and Jean, and I've aged Bobby up a tiny bit.

_God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,_  
courage to change the things I can,  
and the wisdom to know the difference. 

 

A quarter 'til eight on a Tuesday morning, and he was not only awake and dressed, but on campus and humming--actually _humming_ \--to boot. There was no doubt about it. Peter Parker was losing it.

Or not. It wasn't as if he saw sunshine and a blue sky where there was cold, drizzling February gray, damp and seeping through his hooded sweatshirt. It wasn't as if he'd woken up and found that the roaches in his apartment (okay, room) had turned into butterflies overnight. Maybe this was just...normal. Not even happy, really. After all, it wasn't like the two cups of overpriced-but-tasty cappuccino in his hands from the Starbucks on the corner weren't a peace offering. 

A peace offering to someone who wasn't really mad in the first place, but still. Peter had been the one to bring It up again yesterday, despite knowing full well that, no matter what angle they went at it from, they always ended up at the same place: with Peter frustrated and feeling like a loser, and Hank frustrated and feeling like a real bastard. (Occasionally, with Peter feeling like Hank was a real bastard, too. Even if that _was_ unfair.)

The most annoying thing was, Peter could see Hank's point. _Their_ point, actually, though he'd only talked to Scott about it once. He wasn't a mutant, and he hadn't gone to school at Xavier's. He didn't (or didn't used to) have weird genes. He had a spider. There were issues about the ethics of claiming a status--not a legal one, yet--that wasn't really his to claim.

As Peter saw it, though, it was just semantics: mutant versus mutated. But, according to them, it made a difference.

Scott was worried about the greater good, too. Did people accept Spider-Man's help more freely than the X-Men's? What would happen if Spider-Man disappeared? Would people want X-Man 'Webslinger' and his friends to help them instead, or would they yell for someone else, like Daredevil or Captain America? (After all, Scott had pointed out, nobody in trouble shouted, “Oh, Cyclops, save me!”)

Hank was mostly concerned for Peter. Which was nice, of course, except that he was _wrong_. What would be the harm in using his powers for good _with a team_? Uncle Ben said he had great responsibility, but he didn't say anything about being responsible to the point of not having a steady job, not having steady money, and, therefore, not having steady food. Or a stable relationship with his landlord. One more late payment (cash only, now), and Mr. Ditkovich swore he'd throw Peter's stuff out his window and onto the street.

And after Peter had pointed that out yesterday, Hank proved just how dumb super-geniuses can be sometimes by offering to spot him some cash until Mr. Jameson gave him another assignment for the _Bugle_ or the Pagoda Palace called needing a substitute delivery guy again. Peter had snapped that Hank just didn't get it and swung out the window. Thus, the 'you're still wrong, but I was a jerk about it' cappuccino. If he'd felt _really_ bad, he would've blown his food budget for the week and bought Hank a piece of coffee cake, too.

The weirdest part was, Peter _knew_ that. Knew that if he'd actually raised his voice, or if Hank had seemed upset instead of fondly exasperated, he would've bought the coffee cake (or carrot cake, or a brownie) because he knew Hank liked dessert-type stuff for breakfast. In the past few months, Peter had ended up eating ramen noodles due to unbudgeted cake expenses a lot. Not as much as he would have if Hank hadn't insisted on treating him to pizza or fast food a couple of times a week, though.

Peter's sweatshirt was pretty wet by the time he got to Hamilton Hall, and though the cardboard cups had kept his hands warm, his nose felt like it was about to fall off. Even after this much time, he still wasn't used to not having a pair of glasses fog up when he went inside in winter. Just as well, though, since he currently didn't have a free hand to wipe them off with.

He was in the stairwell, trying to remember whether the cappuccino with the sugar was in his right hand or his left, when it happened. His spidey sense started to tingle like crazy. The hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck stood at attention, and he shivered. Peter had tried to explain it to Hank once, how it was vague, like apprehension but sharper, a little more _pulling_... 

This was different. Pulling, yes. Vague, no. He knew it. This was _Hank_.

Cappuccino sloshed out of the sippy-lid holes as he sprinted down the hallway. His sneakers squeaked. A maintenance guy stared, but Peter barely noticed. He picked up his pace, rounded the corner, and nearly ran right into Hank, who was coming out of the men's room. Peter's shoes might have left marks on the floor. His heart probably did in his chest, slamming to a stop like that.

“Peter?” Hank tilted his head, frowning slightly. “What's the matter?”

Peter thought about telling him, but decided that 'my spidey sense said you were in trouble' ranked just below 'I had a bad dream' on the list of stupid reasons to be scared. 

He shrugged instead, tried to smile, and held out the drink he thought was sweetened. “Cappuccino! Now with speedy delivery to keep the hot hotter and the foam foamier!”

Hank smiled and wrapped his hand around the cup. “Thank you, but you shouldn't have. I know the present state of your finances does not--”

“Hank. I _wanted_ to,” Peter said as they fell into step, heading for Hank's office. Thankfully, Hank didn't offer to pay him back. He did seem quiet, though, and Peter glanced up at his face as Hank opened his office door. Maybe he should've bought that coffee cake, after all.

“Hey,” Peter said, once they were inside, “you're not, uh, still...about yesterday, are you?”

Hank shook his head as he lowered himself slowly into his battered desk chair. It creaked, and he grimaced. “If you're assuming from my uncharacteristic quietude this morning that I harbor any ill will towards you, that is not the case at all, Peter. I am merely feeling a bit under the weather.”

Now that Hank mentioned it, he did look pale. Peter nodded sympathetically and swallowed his first drink of coffee. Apparently, he'd remembered which cup was which. “What's wrong?” he asked. “Catching a cold?”

“I'm not certain.” Hank took a sip of his drink, winced, and set the cup aside. “At this point, I simply don't feel _well_.”

“I should've brought juice.”

Hank's lips twitched. “It would have been easier on your pocket.”

“Not what I meant." Peter rolled his eyes. “You really don't look so hot,” he added. “Can't you take the day off?”

“I could, but I fear my students would never forgive me. As you are doubtless well aware, I have examinations scheduled in all my courses later this week. Today, I promised the Tuesday-Thursday sections a final review session.”

“You're going to make yourself sicker if you push it.”

Hank gave him a look over the rims of his glasses, and Peter grinned.

“Once, I was but the learner,” he intoned. “Now, _I_ am the master.”

“The Force is indeed strong in this one,” Hank replied with a small smile, but it was clear that he wasn't in the mood to joke around. Peter fiddled with his cup, feeling awkward. 

“I guess I'd better go,” he said at last. “I need to get to the computer lab before class and print off a new copy of my Western Civ paper. I ended up thinking of some good edits last night while I was waiting for the cops to show up.”

Hank staring off into space, obviously thinking, wasn't anything new. Hank staring at his desk, seemingly deaf to being spoken to, on the other hand, really was. Peter cleared his throat. “Hank?”

“Hmm?” Hank shook himself and blinked, then rubbed absently at his forearm. “Oh, yes, your paper.” He gave Peter a pained look. “I apologize. I don't seem to be myself today.”

“No kidding. Look,” Peter added, catching sight of the clock, “I've gotta run if I'm going to get to class on time, but I'll come by later, okay?”

“Yes, of course,” Hank murmured. He didn't look up, just shuffled through some papers with a faint frown line between his eyebrows, as if he couldn't find something, or wasn't quite sure what he was looking for.

Peter watched him for a second, frowning too, before he headed for the door.

“Oh, and Peter?” Hank called. Peter turned, hoping that maybe Hank had found his marbles somewhere in the messy stacks of pages, but he was still elbow-deep and didn't so much as glance toward the door. “Thank you again for the, ah...” Hank made a vague gesture at his still-full cup, and Peter sighed.

“Anytime. 'Later.”

\---

By some miracle, Peter managed to find a computer in one of the main labs that wasn't being used by an underclassman checking their email or instant-messaging, and his good luck held long enough for him to get a printer that worked, had ink, _and_ had paper. He even made it to class on time. 

As a bonus, he had enough caffeine to get him through Dr. Pellman's lecture on the Black Death, which should have been much less boring than it was. But then, Dr. Pellman, who wore his pants like Steve Urkle and had a hairstyle that he'd proudly informed them on the first day of class had once been all the rage and known as a 'duck's butt,' could have tap-danced while giving step-by-step instructions on how to build a working time machine and _still_ put people to sleep.

Normally, Peter had a hard time staying awake in Western Civilization. Everyone did. And today, even though the plague was admittedly a lot better than the hour and fifteen minutes they'd spent on Roman aqueducts at the beginning of the semester, a few kids' heads were nodding by the fourth time Dr. Pellman mentioned pus. 

Peter was wide awake, though, despite the three hours of sleep he'd scraped by with. And, weirdly enough, it had nothing to do with the caffeine. He couldn't stop glancing at his watch to see how much time had passed, and he couldn't stop thinking about Hank.

Maybe it was just the flu, he thought. It would make sense. Hank seemed out of it, but a fever would do that. And Peter _had_ run into him coming out of the men's room and looking a little shaky. Maybe he'd been throwing up and just didn't want to say anything. (That didn't seem like Hank, but you never knew. Some people were weird about throwing up. Harry had barfed once in third grade, in the middle of P.E., and he'd gotten his dad to write notes so he could stay home the entire rest of the week, he was so embarrassed.) Or maybe Hank _had_ been about to mention it, but then Peter gave him the cappuccino, and you couldn't very well say, “Oh, sorry, I know you're poor and spent money on this, but I just puked and don't feel like a hot, foamy Italian coffee drink right now.”

Peter looked up and tuned in to Dr. Pellman long enough to scrawl 'armpits' in his notebook. He took a drink, trying not to think about pus, barf, or fleas on rats, then tapped the cap of his pen against his chin. If Hank was just sick, plain old sick, then what was up with his spidey sense not only tingling but practically giving him an electric shock with the message that Hank was in danger?

“Peter Parker?”

Peter dropped his pen, which rolled off the desk with a too-loud clatter. He was just out of it enough to have his wrist flexed and ready before he realized what the hell he was doing. He lurched forward, as if he meant to retrieve the pen that way all along, and nearly fell off his chair. 

Somebody snickered, and Peter was sure his face was on fire when he straightened back up. “Uh?”

Dr. Pellman's gray, fuzzy-caterpillar eyebrows did some kind of funky mating dance, wriggling on his forehead. “Mr. Parker. Would you care to share with us one way in which the Black Death affected society?”

Besides killing a big chunk of society off? Peter wondered. He thought for a minute, then started to nod. This section of the reading had resonated with him. “Minority groups were blamed for it,” he said. “Like, Jewish people had their own neighborhoods, back then, and since their laws required them to be cleaner than the average person, they weren't affected by the plague as badly. So, people accused them of causing everyone to get sick by poisoning the water supply.”

The caterpillars squirmed upwards in surprise. “Very good. And why do you think this was?”

This time, Peter didn't have to stop to think. “People always want to blame somebody when something goes wrong. Whether it's one person or a group--particularly a group that isn't well-liked in the first place--choosing a scapegoat serves two purposes. It makes people feel like there's a reason for whatever happened, and also, it makes them feel justified so they can keep on hating...whoever they hate...without feeling guilty about it.”

Dr. Pellman's brown eyes practically sparkled. “Excellent, Mr. Parker! Now, who would like to give me another minority group blamed for the Black Death?” he asked with a long look around the room. “Yes, Miss Vargas?”

Now that the focus was off of him, Peter's thoughts drifted again. How long would it take before the newspapers that said Spider-Man was a jerk, a masked menace and so on, started blaming him--or worse, blaming all superheroes--when things went wrong? Sure, Mr. Jameson had a field day now trying to tie Spider-Man to everything from bank robberies to celebrity couple breakups (apparently, J-Lo was secretly in love with him), but there was nothing really believable there. 

What, he wondered, would happen if the headlines got a tiny bit less far-fetched? If people started whispering that mutations were contagious? If Jameson stopped using 'menace'--which was ridiculous--and started calling him a vigilante, which was both scarier and true?

Peter sensed rather than saw people getting up to leave around him, and he started gathering his stuff automatically. Textbook in his bag, notebook with it, pen he'd been gnawing on out of his--oh, gross. That had been on the _floor_. Peter grimaced and took a swig of lukewarm cappuccino before tossing the cup on his way out. Then he checked his watch and decided the ten-minute break between class periods was probably enough time to go back and look in on Hank. 

“Excuse me! Hey! Guy in the hoodie!”

Peter looked up from contemplating the sidewalk and saw a girl he didn't know half-walking, half-jogging towards him. She saw him looking, nodded, and picked her pace up. 

“Sorry for yelling,” the girl said when she came to a stop. A load of books wobbled precariously in one arm as she pushed her long, wispy black hair back with her other hand, and Peter snagged the top one as it fell. The girl winced. “Sorry! The strap on my bag broke earlier, and--”

Peter smiled. “No problem. Intro genetics, huh?” His eyes widened as he caught sight of the other titles cradled in her arm. “Wow, and biochem, and psychology, _and_ calculus? On the same day?”

“Yes.” The girl took advantage of having a free hand to push her glasses up before taking the genetics text back. She looked proud of herself, but a little embarrassed; her cheeks had gone from the color of caramel to a couple shades darker in a matter of seconds. 

“Pre-med,” she explained, and Peter only heard the hint of defensiveness because it used to be in his voice, too. That, even more than the fact that she looked about sixteen, told him she had to be a freshman. “Honors.”

“Wow, that's great.”

The girl shrugged. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you. I've seen you around Hamilton a lot. You're Dr. McCoy's TA, aren't you?”

Peter blinked. “Me? No,” he replied. “I don't even think he has one. I'm in a couple of his classes though. Why?”

“Oh.” A faint crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Well. I guess you wouldn't know, then.”

Peter's heart seemed to beat sideways. “Know what?”

Her cardigan bunched as she shrugged. “Why he wasn't in class this morning? We were supposed to have a review, but he didn't show up.” Her frown deepened. “There was no note on the door or anything, which isn't like him.”

Peter swallowed hard. Maybe it was just the flu. Maybe his spidey sense was all out of whack. Maybe Hank just went home and forgot to leave a note for his students, but... “No, it isn't,” he agreed quietly. “But I'm sure it's--"

“Vee! Hurry up!” yelled a brunette girl across the lawn. “We're going to be late!”

The girl--Vee, apparently--waved her friend on, then turned back to Peter, rolling her eyes. “My roommate. I've got to go,” she said as she shifted her grip on her books. “Sorry to hold you up.”

“It's fine. Sorry I couldn't help.”

Vee shrugged it off. “Thanks anyway. See you around,” she called over her shoulder.

“See you,” Peter replied, already hurrying.


	2. Really Fricking Blue

Peter's mind raced ahead of his feet as he jogged the rest of the way to Hamilton. Dammit, he should've paid more attention to his spidey sense. He should've _trusted_ himself, for a change. Especially about this, since his spidey sense had only felt like this once before.

Peter's powers had been so new, back then. That was back when he still didn't fully understand what had happened to him. He'd thought the weird, prickly adrenaline rush was from nerves.

That was the night Spider-Man was born. The night Uncle Ben--

No, Peter thought as he yanked open the main door. Hank _was not_ going to die. This time, Peter knew what he was doing, was on top of it, _was not_ too late. He hoped, at any rate.

Just in case, he broke into a flat-out run once he was in the stairwell.

The door to Hank's office was open a crack, and Peter pushed it the rest of the way without bothering to knock. “Hank? You in he--?” 

He froze when he got a good look into the room. Swallowed the words stuck in his throat; whispered the next ones that came to mind. “Oh, God.”

Peter was no detective, despite having read all the Encyclopedia Brown books as a kid, but he had seen enough crime scenes to put things together. At least a little.

Half numb, he stepped inside and shut the door. The shattered glass in the corner was the coffeepot. Easy to tell, since the black plastic handle and lid lay amidst the shards in a pool of coffee. Droplets had splashed up the wall. But why had Hank been making coffee if he had cappuccino?

Peter knelt and sniffed the puddle, then gingerly touched a spot without any visible bits of glass. Stale, and ice cold. Okay, so, Hank had been going to wash the coffeepot? Instead of going to class, and when he didn't feel good?

Peter stood and looked harder. Oh. The whole coffee maker had fallen off the little table where Hank kept it. Was _knocked_ off, maybe.

He took a step back and nearly tripped as his foot connected with something. A picture frame, upside down. Hank's undergraduate diploma, Peter saw when he picked it up. The glass on the front was a web of cracks.

Peter set the frame on the desk, then went around to Hank's chair and gripped the back hard. Smelled something sweet and noticed, belatedly, the milky tan puddle soaking the papers on the desk and dripping onto more papers that were scattered on the floor. A fly buzzed drunkenly, wading in a droplet, and Peter shook his head. At last someone was enjoying the expensive cappuccino.

From this angle, even if he wasn't a boy-wonder detective, it was easy to guess how the office got trashed. Hank had been sitting here, cappuccino beside him, going through papers. Something bad happened, and he shoved the chair back, spilled his drink, and pushed the papers to the floor. 

Hank must've hurried around the desk and bumped into the table, which knocked the coffee maker over. The pot broke. He went around that, and in a hurry, because he ran into the wall or brushed against it, and that's how the diploma fell.

Peter retraced Hank's steps, nodding to himself. Then he caught sight of the scarlet smear on the floor and winced. So, Hank hadn't managed to avoid the broken glass entirely. Sure enough, Peter saw when he looked back, Hank's big Converses were lined up neatly beside the desk. The sight of them made the hairs on the back of Peter's neck stand up even straighter than before. Whatever was wrong must've been _really_ wrong if Hank hadn't stopped to put on his shoes.

He knew Hank well enough, by now, to know that he would've thrown up in his trash can--heck, on the floor--before he went out of his office barefoot. Hank was _serious_ about not letting people here know he was a mutant. (By now, Peter also knew that the one time Hank “forgot” to put his shoes on, the day Peter found out, it was totally on purpose.)

Peter was almost out the door in pursuit of him when he remembered. That day, when Peter found out and Scott came, Hank had almost forgotten his shoes. He'd had his hand on the doorknob and turned back. 

Peter lunged for the phone and punched in the number for information. “North Salem,” he said when the automated voice asked for a city. “Xavier's School for the Gifted.”

He pressed the button to be connected automatically, then waited, tapping his fingers on the desk as it rang. A lot. Peter tapped harder in frustration, mostly at himself. Of course nobody was picking up on a Tuesday morning. It was a _school_ , and all the adults taught, as far as he knew. And he didn't know Scott's cell phone number. And apparently, they didn't have an answering machine. At least, not on this number.

He let it ring for another minute before giving up, then paused once he'd hung up. The idea of looking for Hank as Spider-Man was tempting. For one thing, he could track him a lot faster. On the other hand, though, he might really need to be Peter Parker, normal guy, if Hank was hurt somewhere and needed to get to the hospital. Or if he wanted to ask people if they'd seen Hank. And the bad thing about being Spider-Man was that the suit didn't have pockets to put his regular clothes in.

The good thing about being regular old Peter Parker on a big campus was that nobody thought it was weird that he ran down the stairs, out the building, and then practically sprinted to the parking lot. He wasn't dressed for running, but who didn't run--or at least hurry--when it was raining? Spider-Man would've got a lot more attention. 

A quick scan of the lot told him that Hank's old VW Beetle wasn't anywhere to be found. Peter groaned and slicked his wet hair back from his forehead.

“Crap,” he muttered aloud. Think, you dork, he told himself. Where would Hank go?

One of two places, Peter realized after a minute. If Hank was in trouble, the logical places to go would be his apartment or Xavier's school. Far less likely, Peter's apartment. And Hank's was closer. Peter headed across campus at a dead run, shoes squelching with every step.

\---

Hank's car was parked on the street out in front of his apartment building. Crookedly and insanely illegally, but Peter heaved a sigh of relief when he saw it. Better yet, he saw a big, dark shape in the driver's seat.

“Hank!” he yelled as he jogged up beside the ugly little orange Bug. “I've been looking for yo-- Ohh, crap,” he breathed. He was close enough, now, to clearly see inside.

Some kind of huge, hairy monster ate Hank.

It was the middle of the morning. And he didn't have his costume on. And there were people, but--

“Screw it,” Peter muttered, and wrenched open the door. This was _Hank_ he was talking about. “You sonofabitch,” he snapped, too pissed off to think of a witty conversation opener. He grabbed the thing's arm, intending to drag it out of the car. “What did you do with my friend?”

The thing looked like a cross between a gorilla and a lion. Except that it was bright blue and shaggy. It growled, deep in its throat, hunched over the steering wheel, and turned its face away. Tried to pull its arm away, too, but Peter hung on.

“That's right, you should be afraid of me,” he said. “Hurt my _friend_ \--” he pulled harder. The thing wouldn't budge, so Peter looped some webbing around its forearm, stepped back, and yanked. Really hard. Which might not have worked, had the monster not decided to pounce.

With a horrible noise that was somewhere between a roar and a shout, it shot out the door and right into Peter, knocking him to the ground with its front paws on his shoulders and its full--and heavy--weight pinning him to the street.

Peter struggled as best he could with the wind nearly knocked out of him. He couldn't help turning his face away when he saw those long, sharp fangs bared in a snarl, even though that provided the thing with prime access to his jugular. Peter grunted and shoved upwards blindly, hands tangling in damp fur. “Get _off_ , you mangy beast!”

Then he froze. Closed his eyes. Swallowed hard. Oh, _God_.

The thing--the beast-- _Hank_?--sat motionless. Not attacking. Just waiting patiently for Peter to stop being stupid.

Peter looked up and felt his heart twist at what he saw in Hank's familiar blue eyes. “Oh, God,” he whispered, and this time it might have actually been a prayer for forgiveness. “ _Hank_?”

The crushing pressure on his shoulders let up, though those huge paws didn't release him entirely. The monster watched Peter's face for a minute, expressionless, before its head inclined once in a nod. 

Then it--then _Hank_ drew farther away, until he wasn't on top of Peter anymore, just kneeling on the street beside him. He watched Peter warily, and it occurred to Peter that barfing soon might not be out of the question. Not for Hank, who obviously did not just have the flu. For him. And not because he thought Hank looked gross, but because he could not--absolutely could not--have done or said anything _worse_ , just now, than the things he did.

Peter swallowed hard and climbed to his feet, then moved closer to Hank and gingerly put a hand on one of his massive, slumped shoulders. Hank didn't move. His fur was thick and softer than it looked. Even wet. “I'm sorry,” Peter said quietly, voice hoarse. For the first time since he was about sixteen, Peter thought it might crack as he spoke. “Hank, I'm so s--”

Hank looked up and nodded again, and his muscles bunched under Peter's palm in a shrug. Saying it was okay? He understood? It didn't matter because Peter was dead to him now?

Well, maybe not the last one, Peter thought. It wasn't as if Hank were moving away from his hand or, like, jumping him again.

Sometime in the last couple of minutes, it had started to rain in earnest instead of just sprinkling, and Peter turned his face to the sky for a second, blinking against the droplets. A cop car swished by, down at the end of the block, with its lights flashing but no sirens. Peter shivered and shoved his hands in the pocket of his sweatshirt as it occurred to him that they were lucky, so far, nobody had called the cops on _them_. “Uh. We should probably...”

Hank nodded yet again and stood. Peter noticed, now that he wasn't quite so shocked, that Hank was still wearing the stretched and tattered remains of his khakis. Realized, too, as they stood awkwardly by the car without making a move to get in, that Hank hadn't yet said a word to him. So, either he _was_ mad, or--

Peter winced and looked up. “Hank?” he asked. His voice still seemed dried-up and wrong. “Um. Can you--you _can_ still talk. Right?”

Hank gave him a sideways, guarded glance that made Peter feel about four inches tall all over again. Man, he'd _really_ screwed up. 

“Yesh,” Hank said at last, low and slurred. Very softly. “But. Fangsh. I am unaccustomed--” That one came out really mangled, and Hank shook his head and made a frustrated half-swipe with one hand. Paw. Whatever. “Thought prosh--. Thought _patterns_. Base, feral, my own--I cannot--”

“You're having a hard time because you don't have...all this...sorted out yet?”

“Precishly.”

“We can't stay out here,” Peter pointed out when they still didn't move. “Were you going to go inside? 'Cause I think going to Xavier's might not be a bad idea.”

“Was going to use. To--to telephone,” Hank said. “But, my key--these digits--” He spread his hands.

“Right,” Peter said, suddenly understanding how many other things Hank's new fingers couldn't do easily, if at all. Things like prep a slide. Or type. Or hold a pen. “Do you still want to go in, or should we just go? I can drive, if you want.”

Hank shot him a look.

“I can! I have my license. And Aunt May lets me drive the Buick, sometimes.”

“Yesh.”

Peter decided to take that as 'sure, you can drive' instead of Hank just agreeing that he did, in fact, have a license. Particularly since he went around to the passenger's door. Hank took a minute to work the handle, another couple to squeeze inside, but once he was settled, Peter climbed in behind the wheel and adjusted the seat.

The silence started to get unbearable after about five minutes, but Peter couldn't think of anything to say besides 'I'm sorry,' which he'd already said and had a feeling Hank didn't really want to hear again. It didn't help that the radio was broken, no doubt from the time Peter had shocked it to its circuitry by switching to a rock station from NPR. 

The windshield wipers squished and squeaked, and the army of cabs out in force due to the rain kept honking at him to drive faster. Even backed up behind stoplights. Peter kept his eyes straight ahead, though that was only partly for safety's sake. He didn't need spidey senses to tell him that Hank did _not_ want to be looked at, right now. 

By the time they were finally a ways out of the city and driving past a small town, Peter couldn't take it anymore. “You hungry?” he asked, just for something to say.

“Ravenous. Bovine carcass?”

_Bovine_ carcass? He wasn't kidding about going a little wild. “Uh,” Peter said as he took the exit for fast food, “two all beef patties okay?”

“Yes.”

It ended up being four--two double Quarter Pounders for Hank, hold the condiments, and just a Coke for Peter, once he realized how much low-grade beef patties actually cost and that Hank's wallet was currently inaccessible. To Hank, at least, since fitting his hands into his pockets was impossible. As it was, Peter took his four cents in change with a sigh of relief.

“And hey, great costume!” the girl at the window called after them. So much for relief.

This time, it was Hank who sighed. He didn't say anything, though. Just fumbled with the paper sack and took out a burger.

Peter's Coke burned squeezing down past the lump in his throat. “Hey,” he managed, striving for lightness and instead sounding weird, “is the bovine working out all right for you?”

“Indeed. Though better raw.”

Peter winced. “Erk. Okay.” He sneaked a look at Hank out of the corner of his eye. “Those baser urges not getting under control, huh?”

Hank suddenly became very interested in flicking a sesame seed off one claw. “Worsening, rather.”

“Oh, man. _Hank_ \--” Peter bit off yet another apology, then took a swig of his drink and settled the cup back between his legs. “We'll figure this out,” he said at last, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “I know we will.” 

He just didn't know _how_ , exactly, given that the person most qualified to deal with mutations gone crazy currently wanted to eat raw cows.

Paper rustled as Hank crumpled the bag. That helped kill a little of the smell in the car, a strange, musky mixture of fryer grease, damp fur, and Peter's own sweat. Hank was silent for awhile, and Peter sensed rather than saw him pull his arms close across his chest, as if trying to make himself as small as possible. Even so, their shoulders were almost close enough to bump.

They were about ten minutes from Xavier's when Hank suddenly took a deep, snuffling breath. “Peter,” he said, his voice hoarser than before, “I am desirous. Chase _cars_!”

The strangling lump was back in his throat again. What could he _say_ , to something like that? Peter broke a promise to Aunt May and took one hand off the wheel for longer than five seconds. Found one of Hank's hands blindly (he wasn't about to take his eyes off the road, too) and squeezed. Hard. 

“Frightened.” It was whispered so softly Peter almost didn't hear, and wasn't sure he was supposed to, but he nodded anyway.


	3. Drip, Drip

Peter guessed classes were still in session when he pulled to a stop in the mansion's driveway. Though there were lights on inside, the grounds looked deserted. He glanced at Hank, who had practically gone rigid when Xavier's came into sight. “You okay?” Peter asked, setting a hand on his shoulder.

Hank flinched and pulled away as best he could, given that his other shoulder was nearly touching the window. “Get Scott,” he growled tersely.

“You're not going to come in?”

“Would frighten small, _tasty_ \---rrargh!” Hank broke off with an anguished roar and covered his face with both hands. Peter jumped.

“Oh, God. Okay,” he stammered, half out of the car. His McDonald's cup rolled off somewhere, but Peter was already sprinting for the door.

The mansion was unlocked, and Peter tore through the foyer, remembering vaguely that classrooms were here on the main floor. He rounded a corner into a hall and was about to start throwing doors open at random when he remembered that Professor Xavier was supposed to be a really powerful mind-reader. So, he stopped.

“ _PROFESSOR XAVIER! THIS IS PETER PARKER_!” he thought loudly. If thoughts could be loud, that is. At any rate, he tried to think big. “ _I NEED SCOTT SUMMERS RIGHT NOW_.”

“ _Third door on the left_ ,” the professor replied immediately, in his head. And that itself was very weird, but Peter figured he'd deal with it later. “ _Should I ask him to meet you in the foyer_?”

“ _Please_ ,” Peter thought. He went back around the corner and crossed his arms tightly and tried not to pace. He didn't have long to wait, though. Within a minute, Scott strode into the room, looking as tense as Peter felt.

“What's wrong?”

“It's Hank,” Peter explained on the way out the door. “He...changed. Into something. Like, an animal? And he's okay mentally, sort of, but--” 

He broke off and trotted to catch up, trying not to be jealous of the fact that Scott didn't seem to be freaked out. Peter thought he heard him mutter, “Holy shit,” under his breath when they got close enough to see inside the car, but he didn't _act_ afraid. Just opened the door and bent so that he was eye-to-sunglasses with Hank. 

“Hey,” Scott said quietly, “let's get you inside, Be--” His Adam's apple jumped as he swallowed the rest of that word. “--before this period gets over. Getting downstairs will be a nightmare, otherwise.” 

Hank nodded and climbed out with halting, careful movements, as if he hurt down to his bones. And yeah, he probably _did_ , given that his bones had to have grown a couple inches each in the past few hours. He stood there with his shoulders slumped, looking at his feet. Looking like he didn't really know what to do with himself.

Peter met the red lenses of Scott's sunglasses and wished he could read his expression. The rest of Scott's face sure didn't give him any clues as to what he was thinking. 

After a second, Scott turned back to Hank. “Come on,” he said, taking one of Hank's elbows. Hank hunched away and growled, deep in his throat, and Peter jumped. Scott just looked puzzled. “Hank?”

“Not lead,” Hank snarled. “Not touch. Not _now_.”

“Right,” Scott said. He took a step back and spread his hands. “Okay. Not leading. I'm asking. Will you please come inside?”

Peter waited until they were a few steps away before going to shut the Bug's door. He was just leaning in to grab the keys when he saw a glint on the floor, half-hidden under the passenger's seat. With a sick feeling in his gut, he tugged on the Columbia keychain, freeing the key from the ignition, then bent to pick up Hank's glasses. He locked the car and stood there for a minute, hand curled around the wire frames. One lens was cracked; the seam was hair-thin and straight under a fingertip.

Peter's glasses had broken once, back in junior high. He'd been playing baseball, even more of a klutz at twelve than he'd been at sixteen. Back then, his knees and hands and feet (and ears) seemed to grow before the rest of him did, which had ended up with him fumbling or dropping or tripping over practically everything, including his own shoes. And all it took was a missed step, running in from deep right field to try to catch the ball, and he'd belly-flopped onto the grass and gotten the wind knocked out of him. His glasses had flown off in another direction, and thick blue plastic frames just weren't meant to handle the weight of your average Little Leaguer, as Peter discovered when Nicky Brown, the center fielder, came over to see if he was okay.

Peter remembered the sick, dizzy feeling that had been in his stomach when he walked to the dugout, squinting into the sunlight under the brim of his baseball cap and flinching at everything. He'd felt weirdly vulnerable, and his fingers tightened around Hank's glasses now. He swallowed and headed for the mansion with his head bowed. Hank without his shirt was okay, even blue. Hank without his glasses, not so much.

 

This class period was apparently not over yet, since the foyer and hallways were still empty. Even so, Peter hurried for the elevator. To his surprise, Scott was waiting for him downstairs, arms folded tightly over his black turtleneck. “What took you so long? He's with Jean in the infirmary,” he added, without waiting for an answer.

Peter nodded. “Can we...?”

“Give 'em a minute. She's his doctor, but you're still his student, Peter. There might be something--”

“Right.” Peter blew out a breath and felt a little of the tension in his shoulders loosen. Hank was with a doctor, now. The worst had to be over.

Scott jerked his head in the direction of the conference room. “You want to sit down?”

“No, thanks. This is fine.”

Scott nodded, and they were uncomfortably quiet for a minute. Then, “How about a dry shirt? We've got some extra training sweats.”

Peter was about to refuse again, but then he studied Scott's face and saw the rigid line of his jaw and realized that it might actually be a kindness if he let Scott do _something_. So, he nodded. “Yeah, sure. A shirt would be great. Thanks.”

The gray sweatshirt Scott brought back was too big, but Peter did feel a lot warmer once he'd stripped off his wet hoodie and damp Legend of Zelda t-shirt and put it on. The fleecy inside hadn't yet gotten all pilled up and rough from the washing machine, and Peter wondered if this wasn't just a spare but actually was brand new. He didn't ask. Just gave Scott a small, tight smile. “This mean I can join the team?”

Scott looked at the closed infirmary door instead of answering. “What happened?” he asked abruptly.

“I don't know,” Peter said, his smile fading. “Hank said he didn't feel good this morning, then didn't show up for class. I went looking for him, and just...found him. Like this.” 

Well, maybe not 'just found,' exactly. More like, 'found and tried to beat up.' The shame still threatened to make Peter sick, and he was really glad, for once, that he couldn't meet Scott's eyes if he wanted to.

“Hey, you okay?” Peter asked, when a few minutes had passed and Scott had just stood there silently.

“Talking to the Professor,” Scott replied, and Peter realized all over again how weird--but cool--it would be to live with mind-readers. “I'm not now, though,” Scott added after a second. “He says thank you. For bringing Hank, and for having the presence of mind not to scare the kids.”

Peter nodded, then turned abruptly when the infirmary door opened. “How's Hank?”

“Is he all right?” Scott asked in the same instant. “What's happening?”

Jean shut the door behind her before she turned to face them. There were deep, troubled creases between her eyebrows, right above the nosepiece of her glasses. Peter hadn't known she wore glasses, he thought randomly. The florescent light made her skin look scarily pale.

“He's all right,” Jean said, sounding a lot calmer than she looked. She put her hand on Scott's forearm. “He's going to be okay. Really.”

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Did you--I mean, is this fixable? Can you change him back?”

Scott turned to him abruptly, though whether he was giving Peter a disgusted look or had just been about to ask the same thing, Peter couldn't tell. It didn't matter, though, because Jean shook her head.

“Peter, he's mutating. _Mutated_ , I should say, since it looks like he's done changing; just adjusting, now.” Jean lifted her free hand in a helpless, tiny shrug. “This looks like textbook manifestation of mutant powers.”

“Except that he's not a teenager, and it doesn't make sense for Hank to manifest late, since his physical mutation was present at birth,” Scott said. “Secondary mutation?”

Jean shook her head again. “Like you said, that doesn't make sense. If he had one, it would've shown itself long before now.” With a sigh, she burrowed her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “Hank's theory--and I think he's right--is that this has something to do with his accident a few months ago, when he injected himself with the drug we gave Mallory Garrett."

"Shit!" Scott said, under his breath. "We _caused_ this?"

Peter couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Couldn't really deal with this right now. All he could do was remember Hank pulling that needle out of his forearm. Could still see--vividly--the stricken, scared look on Hank's face when he'd noticed it. 

Jean took a step closer to Scott and let him wrap his arm around her shoulders. "We didn't cause it," she said quietly, sounding like she was trying to convince herself as much as them. "Hank didn't cause it. Mallory didn't cause it, even if her blood being on the needle had something to do with this. It was just an accident."

"Even so. Shit." Scott shook his head. "Does he think--"

“Jean?” Peter interrupted. “Is it okay if I go in?” He trusted Jean that Hank was okay, of course, but...this sort of stuff wasn't normal, for him. He couldn't just stand here and talk about it. Even in Spider-Man's world, your friends (or students, whatever) didn't just randomly sprout wings or start breathing fire. Actually _seeing_ that Hank was all right seemed absolutely necessary.

Jean seemed to understand, and gave him a small smile. “Sure, that's fine. He might not still be awake, though, or if he is, he's probably out of it. He asked me to sedate him.”

Peter nodded, hating the tiny part of himself that thought that was a really good idea.

 

Stretched out on the bed, Hank somehow looked bigger and smaller than he had before. Or maybe 'smaller' wasn't right. Less threatening, maybe, without the new fangs bared or any looming. Bigger like in the Volkswagen; how many people made a regular bed look like a camp cot?

With the overhead lights dimmed and all that dark fur, Peter couldn't clearly see his face. “Hank?” he asked softly. “You awake?”

“Hmm?” Very deep, very mellow, almost a _purr_. 

Peter took a hesitant step closer. “Uh. That's a yes, right?”

“'m not gonna _bite_ you, Peter.”

Despite the situation, Peter smiled. Partly because Hank sounded _so high_ , which was _so wrong_ , but a little bit funny. Mostly with relief, though. Even with the mellow slurriness, Hank sounded like _Hank_ again. “So, you're...okay, now?” he asked as he came to stand by the bed.

Hank cracked open one eye. “Don' hurt anymore. Thass good.”

“Hey, yeah, it is,” Peter said. His throat was all tight and rough again, and he wished there was room to sit on the edge of the bed. He stuck his hands in his pockets instead. “You sound better, too. Like you're getting all that stuff under control?”

“ _Said_ 'm not gonna...” Hank faded out and nodded against the pillow.

“I know.” 

For a minute, Peter thought Hank had drifted off, but then he waved one paw vaguely. The IV tube swayed. “Can shit here, if y'want,” Hank murmured.

Peter blinked. “Wha--? Oh.” Right. _Sit_. On the floor, he guessed Hank meant. He sank down and pulled his knees up. The metal was cold through his still-damp jeans. Peter sat with his head bowed and felt his chest cave inwards as he sighed. He could sense Hank's arm lying on the mattress behind him, a hairsbreadth from his neck. Close enough to make his skin prickle. Peter shivered.

Maybe it was something about the fur, but the weird thing was, he had the idea that if one of them just closed the distance--if he reached back, or if Hank moved just a fraction of an inch and laid his hand on Peter's head or shoulder, everything would be okay. 

Okay, maybe not _everything_ , but it sure might make him feel better. As it was, neither of them moved. Peter just sat there, staring at his knees and listening as Hank's breathing became deep and regular.

After awhile, a slice of bright light coming in the room made Peter look up. Jean did something over by Hank's IV pole, then came to crouch beside Peter. "He's fine," she whispered, "just knocked out. Want to come out in the hall, for a minute?"

Peter nodded and followed her out. "What's going on?" he asked once the door was shut.

Jean shrugged. "I just wanted to let you know that Hank probably won't be awake until tomorrow morning at the earliest. He's stable, he's done mutating, and at this point, I think he just needs to rest." She gave him a lopsided smile. "In other words, there's really nothing you--or I, or anyone--can do, right now."

"Except be here when he wakes up."

Jean's lips pressed together. "Peter… Hank has just been through a pretty traumatic change. It's possible that, when he wakes up, he won't _remember_ what happened today. And he might--he might want a little time alone to deal with it," she said gently. "You understand, don't you?"

Peter looked at his sneakers and thought about reminding her that he was a junior in college, not one of the prepubescent junior high kids here. Instead, he just nodded.

"You're welcome to stay, though," Jean added. "For dinner--I think the Professor is letting the kids order pizza--or stay the night and see how Hank is tomorrow, whatever you want. Or I'm sure Scott would be happy to drive you home."

The thought of staying the night would have been tempting, except that the one X-Man Peter really knew and wanted to be with was the one he wasn't supposed to sit with. He met Jean's eyes.

"There's really nothing we can do?" he asked. "Not in Hank's lab? I mean, I don't know a _ton_ , but I helped Hank with that girl, Mallory, and you're a doctor. Don't you think we could do…I don't know, _something_ to change him back?"

For the first time since he'd met her, Peter was afraid Jean was going to start crying. Her face sort of half-crumpled, and she shook her head. "Even if we could, which I think is highly unlikely, do you really think Hank would want us to use his equipment, build on his research, to _reverse_ a mutation?" she asked quietly. "It was one thing to help Mallory control her powers, but Peter, what you're talking about, that's--"

Peter sighed. "I didn't mean it that way."

"I know you didn't." To Peter's surprise, Jean put one arm around his shoulders and gave him a quick hug. "Come on, let's go upstairs. Are you up for pizza?"

"I'd like to, but I think I'd better go home," he replied, trying to smile. "I work the night shift, you know?"

"All right. I'll tell Scott."

Peter shook his head and pushed the elevator button. "Actually, do you think it'd be okay if I borrowed Hank's car? I kind of just want to be alone for awhile."

"I think that'd be fine."

Once Jean had walked him to the door and promised she'd call if anything changed, Peter just sat in Hank's car for a minute, looking at the mansion. With so many lights on, and with the rain outside, the place looked really warm and homey, despite its size. It was so easy to imagine having pizza for dinner later, or maybe making hot cocoa and reading, or playing a board game in front of the fireplace. 

And it was easy to imagine (well, know from experience) what the Spidey suit felt like when it was wet and cold out, and how the radiator in his apartment either didn't work at all, so the room was freezing, or ran at full-blast, boiling hot, and smelled like someone's cat had peed on it.

With a sigh, Peter turned the key, started the wipers running, and headed for home.


	4. Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

It figured. For once, the streets were quiet. No big, noisy crimes with lots of alarms and sirens, and the shit that was going down, Peter wasn't in the mood to deal with. Opening a car door, poking his head in, and saying, “Y'know, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man thinks snorting coke is a bad, bad idea.” 

Right. And normally, he could take being laughed at. Could handle knowing that he wasn't getting through. Dealt with it because sometimes, just sometimes, he thought maybe he did. 

Not tonight. Tonight, he wasn't in the mood to be anyone's friendly _anything_ , not Spider-Man, after-hours spokesman for the D.A.R.E. campaign. Tonight, he was in the mood to punch somebody's face in, and there was one place where the opportunity to do just that was pretty much guaranteed.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen were darker than he was used to, which suited Peter just fine. Cleaner than they used to be, too, thanks to the big D., and it took a full ten minutes of swinging around rooftops before Peter heard them. His spidey sense tingled a little. He lowered himself and crouched on a wall beside a fire escape, waiting.

Sputtering neon orange letters on the bar kitty-corner across the street spelled out 'José's,' or something. The man and woman on the sidewalk were apparently patrons of that fine establishment. Peter could practically smell Captain Morgan, Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, and all their buddies stumbling along with these two.

“Don't wanna, Tommy,” the woman was saying as they came into earshot. “C'mon, I just got off, and my feet are killin' me.”

Tommy's reply was too low to hear, but rough, his meaning unmistakable. Peter leaned out, craning his neck.

The woman's voice rose. “I said _no_ , Tommy! I--”

She broke off with a gasp as Tommy growled and pulled her into the alley, up against the wall. One hand clapped over her shout; the other grabbed her thigh. Time to go.

Peter pushed off the fire escape and swung down. “Dude!” he called out as he landed on the wall behind Tommy, above his head. “Where're your manners? Do you just not _get_ the whole 'no means no' thing, or what?”

“What the--?” Tommy whirled around and let go of the woman. Peter didn't give him a chance to finish. Instead, he squirted some webbing at the guy's chest and jumped to the ground, yanking them together.

“Did you _hear_ her say she didn't want to?” he snapped. With a dull smack, Peter's fist connected with Tommy's midsection, causing him to double over. “And I gotta say, I don't blame her there, bub. You are one. Ugly. Mother.”

With each word, knuckles popped the guy's face. The impact stung a little. More for Tommy. Even in the darkness, Peter could see the blood oozing out of his split lip.

Tommy didn't even try to fight back. Not really. Couple of weak punches, but Peter's webbing wrapped tight, cutting into his chunky shoulders. His fist. Just. Kept. Swinging. He stopped talking; started grunting, off rhythm with Tommy's groans and wheezes. Roaring in his ears. Screaming, somewhere.

This wasn't his style, Peter thought distantly. Fists and blood, knees thudding on pavement as they fell together, one gloved hand tangled in thinning hair, the other, pulling back again--

_God_ , it felt good.

Felt good until someone grabbed his shoulders from behind, that is. Not the woman. Grip like a vice. 

Shook him. Hauled him. Threw him. Ribs against bricks, now _that_ hurt.

Peter's heart was still deafening, vision blurry and foreign when he blinked and tried to focus. The mask felt soaked and sticky against his face. Tiny, dusty fibers coated his mouth when he could suck air in again. It took him a minute, after having the wind knocked out of him.

His head clunked back against the wall, and he closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. He was not--was _not_ \--going to listen to what was going on over there. Couldn't help overhearing, “don't need an ambulance?”

And the woman, a minute later, sniffling, “--just messing around, y'know? And that asshole--”

Crap. If there was one neighborhood where you _really_ didn't want to be the bad guy... 

That bruising grip clamped down on him again, this time on his left bicep, and Peter was on his feet and swinging before he had a chance to think. Gloved, sore knuckles cracked on hard leather. Tingled. _How_ had he not noticed that his hands were still curled into fists?

With an ease that would have been embarrassing if Peter were, like, in his right mind, Daredevil stepped close, twisted, and had both of Peter's arms pinned--none too gently--in an instant. He shook him again as Peter struggled, and, through his panting, Peter belatedly realized that he was talking.

“The hell?” Daredevil asked. Another shake rattled Peter's teeth. “Spider-Man! It's me, Daredevil.”

“I know, you jerk!” Peter tried to elbow him in the gut and got his shoulder nearly dislocated for his trouble. “Let me go!”

“Are you _on_ something?” Dammit, he sounded like he was trying not to laugh. Well, that, and pissed off. “What's the matter with you?”

“Having--” Peter twisted. Thought about kicking him in the shin and decided that'd be a really stupid move. “--a bad day, all right? Now, let me _go_!”

“You going to stop trying to hit me?”

He had a point. Peter went still. Turned his head, a little, and looked up. “Sorry,” he muttered, meaning it. Despite his sore ribs. “I wasn't--I didn't mean--”

Daredevil shrugged before he released him. “It's okay.” Peter turned to face him and rolled the ache out of his left shoulder as Daredevil continued. “What _is_ the matter, though? It has to be something, or you wouldn't be in the Kitchen, looking for a fight. Which, by the way, is _not_ okay.”

Behind the mask, Peter flushed. “Was he all right?”

“He's a little banged up, but yeah, nothing too serious. Maybe he'll think twice about roughing his girlfriend up, next time.” Daredevil sounded angry, though whether that was directed at Tommy or at him, Peter couldn't be sure.

“I could've killed him,” Peter said quietly. “If you hadn't come, I mean. I never--” he shook his head. Tried again. “I don't usually--”

Daredevil cut him off with a gesture and jerked his head upwards. “Come on,” he said, and promptly used the cord in his billy club to swing himself up to the fire escape. “Roof's better, if you want to talk.”

Peter gave him a head start before following, but even with a throbbing ribcage and aching shoulder slowing him down, he still beat Daredevil to the rooftop. There were some wooden crates and a couple of plastic, five-gallon buckets strewn around, and after making sure there was nothing too gross in it, Peter toed one of the buckets upside down and lowered himself onto it. Daredevil stood, arms folded.

For a moment, Peter just sat there and looked at his lap, listening to the sounds of the city. People shouting, cars driving by, an ambulance, somebody's stereo playing hip-hop at top volume... He looked up when Daredevil snorted softly.

“So. The _Daily Bugle_ 's headline tomorrow: Spider-Man Goes Apeshit!” Daredevil gave him a crooked smile. “What do you think?”

Peter snickered. “More like, 'As J. Jonah Jameson Predicted, Masked Menace Spider-Man Goes Apeshit, Makes Mayhem With Buddy Daredevil. Those Bastards.'”

“Hey, I object to that.”

“What, about the bastard part? Or being called 'buddy'?” Peter asked. “Jameson thinks we're all in cahoots. I mean, I guess he does,” Peter amended hastily, giving himself a mental kick. He was never that careless about his real identity.

Daredevil shrugged and sank down to crouch in front of Peter. “Just the bastards. The other's a little presumptuous, but I don't mind. Much.”

More like a lot presumptuous, Peter thought, seeing as they'd only met a month or so ago and had spoken, like, twice. Still, he felt an undeniable sense of kinship with the guy, kind of like he did with Hank. It was pretty cool, knowing he wasn't the only costumed freak in town.

“So,” Daredevil said after a minute, “want to tell me _why_ Spider-Man went apeshit? Must've been a pretty serious bad day.”

“Yeah. It sucked.” Peter looked down at his hands, traced the black web design on his gloves with his eyes. He took a deep breath, then winced as that made everything that hurt start throbbing again. “It's--I have this friend, right?”

Daredevil looked up and gave him a very skeptical head-tilt. “Is this one of those 'I have a friend, and my friend has a problem' stories?”

“Nope,” Peter said, almost smiling. “I actually do have a friend. He's--I guess he's my best friend,” he added, feeling a little surprised as he realized it was true. “I used to have this other best friend, but there was a whole big thing about how he hates Spider-Man, and it got weird. We don't really get each other anymore.”

Daredevil nodded. “But it's your new friend who has you pissed off.”

“Yeah. I mean, no. I'm not pissed at him. He does have a problem. And I _swear_ this isn't really about me,” Peter added, noticing the head-tilt was back. “My friend is--he had an accident. Awhile ago. And he thought he was going to be fine. But today...” 

Peter broke off with a sigh. There was just no easy way to tell this story without mentioning the whole mutant thing. 

“Today, just out of the blue--" Blue. Oh, that really wasn't funny. “--the accident came back to bite him. He was at work, minding his own business, and now... Well, he's different.”

“Different how?” Daredevil asked, leaning forward a little. “Depressed? That can happen sometimes. It's called post-traumatic--”

“No,” Peter said. “Different, um, physically. Like, life-alteringly different. I guess you'd say handicapped, maybe.”

“Disabled.”

“Yeah. All of a sudden. And I just--I can't stop thinking. About him. About how difficult even stupid, everyday things--things he _liked doing_ \--are going to be for him, now.” 

One fist smacked into his thigh, and for once, Peter was glad to have the mask sticking and itching on his face, if it meant Daredevil couldn't see him trying not to lose it. “It's _really_ not fair.”

Especially not since it should have been him. Since he'd talked to Jean, Peter had lost track of how many times he'd replayed that night in his head. He'd watched it play out the way it really had, feeling sick with guilt. Then he'd watched Hank take him up on his offer to give Mallory the shots. Would webbing and being (probably) faster than Hank have made a difference? Sometimes it did. Sometimes it didn't, and Peter tried to imagine what _he_ would look like blue and furry.

Somebody else had turned their stereo on, somewhere, and twangy country was warring with the hip-hop. Up here, though, it was just background noise. It was quiet enough for Peter to hear Daredevil let a long breath out.

“Well,” Daredevil said at last, slowly, “maybe it won't be as bad for your friend as you think. Of course there will be an adjustment period, but it's not as if having a disability will prevent him from having a normal--”

“That's kind of the thing,” Peter said. “It will. He'll never be able to go out in public again without people being--”

“I know.”

Peter breathed out through his nose, somewhere between a snort and a sigh. “Yeah, we really see the best of people, doing this, right?” 

More than a few times, Peter had stopped jerks who were--well, being jerks--about stuff like that. Not too long ago, he'd swung down and told some preteen punks to back off an older girl with Down syndrome. When the kids had run away, the girl just _stared_ at him for a minute. Then she'd thrown her arms around him in a big bear hug and asked him if he wanted to go shopping with her and her mom. It was the sweetest thank-you he'd ever received. And kids wanted to pick on her, call her names, because she looked and acted different.

“Yeah,” Daredevil agreed, after a long pause. “Doing this.” He cocked his head at Peter again, and Peter found himself wishing he could see more of the guy's face, to get an idea of what he was thinking. Not that that'd be fair, or anything, since it'd take, like, an act of God to get Peter to take his mask off in public. But still. “What about you?” Daredevil asked.

“Me?”

Daredevil nodded and hooked his hands over one knee. “Do you see him differently now?”

Peter thought about it, and the fabric on his forehead bunched as his eyebrows pulled together. “He does actually _look_ different.”

“Not what I meant.”

“I know.” Peter sighed. Reached up to rub the tension out of the back of his neck, but it didn't work. There just wasn't an easy answer here. He looked at his lap, embarrassed and a little ashamed. “Honestly?” he said quietly, as he remembered those gleaming fangs inches above his face. “Today, I got kind of freaked out.”

Daredevil didn't say anything, and Peter exhaled slowly, thinking.

“I know he's still himself,” he said at last. “It's just--his whole _life_ is going to be different, now. In a way that I can't possibly _ever_ really get. You know?”

Daredevil's mouth quirked upwards. “You _do_ realize that you don't have to understand the tiny details of someone's idiosyncratic routine to be their friend?”

“I want to.” Ignoring the dull ache in his side, Peter shoved himself to his feet. He walked a few steps away, then kicked the rooftop hard enough to send little shocks up his toes. “I want to know what it's like. I want to _know_ what's going to be harder, so I can maybe help find a solution. He's helped me out a lot, before, and I want to really _be_ there for him now, and--” 

He broke off, jaw working, and stared out at the city. The lights twinkled like ten million fireflies, too bright.

Behind him, Peter barely heard Daredevil's soft footsteps. For a tall, pretty built guy, he moved like a cat, and Peter wondered just how much martial arts training he'd had. He stiffened but didn't pull away when Daredevil's hand clapped down on his shoulder. Peter half-turned to see him staring out at the skyline, too.

“Want some advice?” Daredevil asked. “ _Ask_ him what it's like. But remember that there's a difference between being there for someone and taking care of them.” He gripped Peter's shoulder more tightly for a second before letting his arm fall.

Peter digested this, nodding slowly and mechanically, like one of those toy Chihuahuas people kept in the back windows of their cars. “I can do that. I think.” Except for the actual _asking_ part, he thought with a frown. 

“But how do you _ask_ somebody something like that?” Peter burst out. “Seriously. I mean, stuff like, 'I know you just had this debilitating thing happen to you, and _that_ must really suck, but dude, how are you going to use a toilet in a teensy bathroom stall?' Come on!”

Daredevil laughed aloud. “Man! Do you really need to _know_ that?”

“It was just an example,” Peter muttered, his cheeks hot under the mask. “But you _do_ wonder, right? Stuff like that?”

“Is this the general 'you,' or are you asking me if _I_ do?” Daredevil asked. He still sounded amused. “Because I might as well wonder how you take a piss. That costume's skin-tight.”

“It's actually a shirt and pants.” _Not_ tights, dammit. Just...tight, stretchy pants. “Just hard to tell.”

“Ah.”

“It _is_ a pain, though, when I'm all sweaty,” Peter said thoughtfully. “They, like, stick.” He eyed Daredevil's leather getup and winced. “You're one to talk, anyway. That can't be fun to get off.”

“You get used to it.” A grin spread across Daredevil's face as he turned to Peter and shook his head. “God. Now _this_ is a conversation I never expected to have.”

Peter couldn't help smiling back. He was trying to figure out how to say that it felt good to talk like this without sounding like a total girl when Daredevil frowned and turned his head sharply, cocking an ear toward the street.

“Hey, I've gotta go,” Daredevil said. He stepped up on the ledge and glanced back over his shoulder. “Good luck with your friend.”

“Thanks.” Just one word didn't seem like enough, but Daredevil nodded and dove off into the night. “See you around,” Peter added quietly, watching him go. To his surprise, even three roofs over, Daredevil seemed to hear. He turned around and sketched a wave before disappearing over the edge.

Peter swung off in the opposite direction, his body twinging with every movement. A couple of hours ago, he wouldn't have thought he'd be able to sleep at all tonight. Now, though, he couldn't wait to hit the shower and go to bed.


	5. Splinter

Peter's alarm went off at eight-fifteen. Half-asleep, he pulled the clock over with a jet of webbing, turned it off, and cuddled it next to his cheek like a hard, round teddy bear before he remembered that something was wrong. For a split second, as he was clawing his way from unconscious to groggy, he thought it was because he'd forgotten to do the reading for his nine o'clock anatomy & physiology class, and he hadn't finished his calculus homework. 

Then he remembered _why_ he'd blown off his homework and sat bolt upright with a gasp. Right. Hank! And as if _that_ sudden adrenaline rush weren't enough, the phone rang. Which wouldn't have been bad, had Peter not put it right beside his pillow before going to bed, just in case.

One good thing about living alone, Peter guessed, was that there was nobody around to see you peel yourself off the ceiling when you literally did jump a foot. Or six.

He dropped back onto the bed and grabbed the phone mid-jangle. "Hello?"

"Hi, Peter? It's Jean Grey. And oh, you're in college. This is early. Did I wake you?"

"No, no, I'm up," Peter said, scrubbing a hand through his hair in an unsuccessful effort to clear his head. His heart was still racing. "What's going on? Is Hank okay?"

"It's nothing like that. He's fine," Jean said reassuringly.

Peter let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Clutched the receiver a little tighter. "Oh, good."

"I just wanted to catch you and let you know," Jean said. "He's awake, and he's…okay. Very much okay."

Peter sort of wondered what she meant by that, if he'd imagined the tiny hesitation in her voice, but he was too relieved to really think about it. "Can I see him?"

"I don't see why not. Maybe he'll--" Jean cut herself off. "I don't see why not," she repeated.

"Awesome. I'll leave in a few." Even if that meant skipping his classes again, who cared? Seeing Hank was way more important, and it wasn't like he was prepared, anyway.

"See you later, then," Jean said.

"See you." Peter smiled. "And thanks, Jean."

\---

Unlike yesterday, when every mile had seemed to take a year, the drive to Salem Center went by in a blur today. He didn't even speed. (In fact, Peter had long suspected that he was physically _incapable_ of speeding. Like, his head would explode if he tried. Thank you, Aunt May.) Even going the speed limit, though, he was flying.

The floaty feeling didn’t stop when he parked in front of Xavier's, either. His feet might not have touched the ground on the way inside. He said a quick 'hi' to Jean, who was coming down the hall with a cup of coffee, but as he got in the elevator to go downstairs, he realized he had no idea what she'd said back. She might have laughed at him, but that was okay. He was being stupid, and he knew it.

He _felt_ stupid, and not because he was ditching class. Stupid with relief. The weight in his chest yesterday had started to lift last night, talking with Daredevil, and now, knowing that his best friend really, truly was very much okay… It felt good.

Started feeling a little less good as he walked down the hall, and Peter knew why. It was that hospital feeling. The one you got when you were visiting somebody, and you were a little bit scared without having a reason to be. Fear of the unknown, he guessed. Or maybe of your own mortality, but that was way too deep for Stupid Peter to think about right now.

Scared, stupid, or whatever, he was there. He knocked on the infirmary door before opening it a little. "Hey, Hank?" he said quietly, through the crack. "You up?"

"Peter?" His voice was deeper than it used to be, and a little rougher, but clearer than yesterday, too. "Come in, come in," Hank added. Unnecessarily, since Peter was already poking his head inside.

Peter grinned, partly because it was just plain good to see Hank, but also out of a renewed sense of relief. Sure, Hank was still really big, and really blue, and really furry, but at least he looked the same as he had yesterday. Better, even, now that the IV tubes had been removed. He walked over to the bed. Thought about taking Hank's hand but didn't, and instead shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. "So. Hi."

"Good morning. Did you spend the night?"

Peter shook his head. "You think it would've taken me this long to come see you if I had?"

Hank opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then closed it again. "I owe you a debt of gratitude, Peter," he said formally. "Had you not been present yesterday, I--"

"Hank. You don't _owe_ me _anything_ ," Peter interrupted, a little bit stung. "I'm just glad you're okay!" Then he paused and really looked at Hank, without trying to make it seem like he was staring, since he still wasn't sure how Hank felt about that. "You _are_ okay, right?"

If Hank noticed Peter's scrutiny--and maybe he didn't, since he wasn't wearing his glasses--he didn't say anything. Just spread his hands in a shrug. "I am, indeed, okay," he replied. "Fortunate, too, I might add. I always have been fond of blue."

It took Peter a second before he was able to return Hank's smile. "It--it looks really good," he offered lamely. "The, uh, shade. I like blue, too."

Hank nodded, seeming pleased. "Before you came, I was entertaining thoughts of relocating to a more comfortable environment. Would you care to join me?"

"Won't Jean mind?"

Hank gave him a pained look. "There are prepackaged pastries in my office, Peter, and soda. As well, I might add, as a place for you to sit."

And it was only down the hall, and Hank _did_ seem to be feeling okay. Surely Jean wouldn't get too mad about her patient leaving. "Sounds great."

"Very good." Hank, who had been propped up on pillows, sat the rest of the way up slowly, then swung his legs over the side of the bed. The shreds of his khakis were gone, Peter noticed, replaced by a big black pair of pajama bottoms. Other than those, he wasn't wearing anything.

Hank stood up and stretched gingerly, as if he was afraid it would hurt, or it _did_ hurt. Probably the latter, Peter realized when Hank grimaced.

He frowned. "You sure you feel up to this?"

"I feel--" Hank cut himself off and shrugged instead. "I feel fine, thank you." Peter was pretty sure he was lying, but figured he better not press. Instead, he just followed Hank down the hall.

Peter spotted the tiny mini-fridge in Hank's office right away. "Soda's in the fridge?"

"Indeed. Help yourself."

"I'll grab yours, too." Peter surveyed the selection. "I'm guessing you want a Dew? Or is it too early?"

Over by the desk, Hank chuckled. "It's never too early--or too late--for Mountain Dew. Honestly, Peter."

Peter snagged one for Hank and a Dr. Pepper for himself before going to flop on the ugly but strangely comfortable orangey-brown sofa. He watched Hank for a minute before he realized that he was taking so long getting the Twinkies out of his desk because he was having trouble _opening_ the desk drawer. His desk was an old, scratched wooden one, with those little carved round knobs on the drawers, and it looked like Hank's paws just didn’t want to grasp them.

Peter stared down at his lap, mad at himself for being too embarrassed to offer to help. "Hey," he said, just for something to say, "you've got a bunch of movies here, right?"

"Our combined collection is quite extensive. Why?" Hank asked. He pushed the drawer closed and turned to Peter, box of Twinkies in hand.

Peter shrugged. "I was thinking, maybe we could watch some? If you want. It'd be fun. Bad 80's high school movies, or stupid comedies, or even _Star Wars_ again, if you feel like it."

"Ooh, how would you feel about a BBC marathon?" Hank asked. "I have _hours_ of videotapes. A beautifully extensive collection. _All Creatures Great and Small, Ab Fab, Yes, Minister **and** Yes, Prime Minister_ …"

Peter tried to hide his wince. And then he saw the way Hank's eyes were twinkling, and how he was obviously trying not to laugh, and shook his head. Couldn't suppress a grin, though. It was _so_ good to see Hank being so, well, _normal_. Taking all this in stride so well. "That was _mean_. I almost said yes!"

Hank snorted and headed for the couch. "Really, now. Do you not have classes today, though?" he asked as he sat. "I would hate to think--" 

He broke off abruptly as an ominous, splintery crack sounded beneath them. A split second later, too fast for Peter even to register that the crack had been a warning, the short wooden legs that held Hank's side of the couch up off the floor just…gave out. The couch thudded down a few inches on that side, jarring them both and sloshing Peter's soda onto his hand.

For a moment, they both just sat there. Peter stared straight ahead with absolutely no idea what on earth he should say or do. Laugh it off? Blame the couch? Scoot a little ways away from Hank, since the lopsidedness had them pretty cozy? Set his soda down and wipe his hand on his jeans? 

That last one sounded pretty good, actually, and gave him an opportunity to make it so he wasn't quite so pressed up _against_ Hank. He leaned over and set his can on the floor. It was only when he straightened back up that he saw Hank had moved, too. Had leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. And--was he _laughing_?

Then Peter heard his wet-sounding sniffle and felt as if the floor had just dropped out from under them, too. Without even thinking about it, he slid right back over and gingerly put his arm around Hank's shoulders.

Hank's back heaved. " _Fuck_ ," he said into his palms, and Peter wasn't sure which shocked him more--hearing that word from _Hank_ , or hearing him sound so completely broken. Weird how just that one word could break Peter, too.

"Hey," he said quietly, his own voice cracking a little. "Hey, it's going to be okay. And it's okay if you're _not_ okay, right now, really. And--"

"--the _sofa_ ," Hank gasped. "I cannot--" he broke off and just sobbed. Big, gulping, ragged gasps that shook the couch so much that Peter was worried the legs on his side might collapse, too. Peter held him tightly, not holding any of his strength back, and stroked the fur on Hank's far shoulder sort of randomly. Peter's own mouth was working, and when he blinked, a couple of hot tears fell down onto his cheeks. He lifted his left shoulder, the one not by Hank, and turned his head to wipe his cheek on his sleeve.

"Hank, I'm so sorry," Peter whispered after awhile, when Hank's sobs had tapered off to just plain old breathless crying. "I really--" he swallowed. "I mean, if you want to talk…"

Hank's whole body shuddered as he inhaled. He sniffled and let his hands fall away from his face, but didn't shrug Peter's arm off. 

"When I awoke yesterday morning," Hank said dully, very soft, "I was a man. Neither a particularly handsome one, nor of average size, but indisputably a _man_ , nonetheless. I could purchase clothing in any men's department. I could enter a room without inciting alarm. I had fingers that could fasten a button and write a letter and dial a telephone." 

Hank sighed, still staring at the floor. "I was accustomed to my height, and my weight, and I knew my own strength. I knew these things _instinctively_ , knew my mutated body intimately, because I was fortunate--or unfortunate--enough to have been born as I was. My form never seemed a curse to me. Unlike so many of the students here, unlike _you_ , I never knew what it was to wake up one morning and find my body a stranger. Conversely, I never knew what it was to be entirely normal. And do you know, Peter, I always considered that a rather fair trade."

Peter wished-- _desperately_ wished--there was some kind of magical glue you could drink that would stick the pieces of your heart back together. Right now, he would swear on a Bible that he could feel the shards poking in his chest. 

"I--" he swallowed and shook his head. Reached up with his free hand to wipe his face again. "I guess it'll take some getting used to," he said, feeling like a real loser.

It was the lamest thing he could have possibly said, but--good guy that Hank was--he nodded anyway. "Indeed," he said quietly. "And I assure you, I _was_ striving for normalcy. The couch's sudden demise, however, was…unexpected."

Peter leaned over, so that his cheek rested on Hank's shoulder, and squeezed him tighter for a second. Sort of a hug. "I don't think there's anything wrong with freaking out," he said. "I would. I _did_."

Hank turned his head slightly and looked down. A hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Did you? I thought you said--how did you put it?--you went from 'super nerd' to 'buff and studly' overnight."

Peter shrugged and clasped his hands in his lap. "I did. It was awesome, at first. I went to bed Screech and woke up A.C. Slater, you know?"

That surprised a chuckle out of Hank. "I'm sorry to say that I _do_ take your meaning."

"But after Uncle Ben died, it really hit me. The shine was off the nickel, I guess, and I started seeing how huge it was. And…yeah. Then I freaked out."

"The apple."

"What?"

"The expression is, 'the shine was off the apple.' Or 'the bloom was off the rose,'" Hank explained. "I simply thought you might like to know."

Peter felt himself start to smile, and he shook his head. "I don't think you need to freak out too much," he said. "You really are still _you_."

Hank heaved a deep, _deep_ breath and let it out slowly. Then one of his hands came up to cup the back of Peter's head, sort of petting his hair, which was funny if you thought about it. 

Peter didn't. Just closed his eyes and leaned into Hank's touch and felt...okay. Not 'very much' okay, and not floating. Just fragile, tentative, for-right-now okay. And that felt surprisingly good.

\---

They ended up watching the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie on the infirmary's portable TV and VCR, then getting most of the way through _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze_ a little later before Hank fell asleep. He woke up after a few minutes and politely-but-firmly suggested that Peter should go back to school and catch his afternoon classes if possible, or at least do some homework or reading before going out tonight. Peter hated to admit it, but Hank was right. 

More importantly, though, he could tell Hank still wasn't at 100% and wanted some time alone. A lot of time alone, Peter guessed when Hank didn't offer to walk him out. He wondered just how long it would be before he was ready to go upstairs again, even though he thought it was sort of silly (understandable, but unnecessary) for Hank to hole up like this. Surely nobody _here_ would look twice at him, right?

When the elevator doors opened and Peter found himself facing an expectant-looking group of kids, though, he blinked. Were they all waiting for a glimpse of Hank? He frowned as he stepped out, and thought about saying something, but then stopped short when a blonde girl in front sort of hopped with excitement. "It's him, you guys!" she hissed.

Instant silence. Six pairs of very wide eyes fixed on Peter. He tried to force a smile through the 'what the hell?' expression he felt going across his face. "Uh. Hi?"

The blonde girl stepped forward, bushy, squirrel-like tail bouncing a little behind her. Peter's jaw dropped. "Whoa! _Mallory_?"

She smiled shyly. "Hi, Peter."

Peter could only grin back. The last time he'd seen her, Mallory Garrett had been sleeping on a bed in the infirmary in hedgehog form. He'd heard from Hank awhile ago that she was doing a lot better now at controlling her transformations, but he'd had no idea she was _this_ much better. "Hey," he said warmly. "You look great!"

Mallory blushed to the roots of her hair and caught her bottom lip with one fang. Before Peter could say anything else, though, a younger, gawky-looking blond boy pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted up at Peter. 

"So, is it true?" he asked.

"Yeah," added a chunky kid, "are you really him?"

"Umm," Peter said as a feeling of unease washed over him, "really who?"

The blond boy rolled his eyes. "Spider-Man, of course! Are you?"

Oh, God. This wasn't happening. Peter could only stare at them, feeling like every muscle in his body had just locked up. He fought the urge to look down and check to see if he was naked. He had to be naked, right? Sort of hoped he was, since that'd mean this probably was just a nightmare.

He looked down. 

Crap. Pants. And not crap _in_ his pants, which would have made the nightmare thing a little more likely. Just…pants. Crap.

He looked back up at the six very earnest, very innocent, very _hopeful_ faces looking back at him and told himself to chill. It didn't matter _how_ it had gotten out and honestly, it was pretty dumb of him to have thought it wouldn't. Xavier's was like family; everyone knew everything about everyone. Even the kids did. 

And these were _just kids_. The oldest one, a boy with blue eyes who was clearly trying to look like he didn't really care how Peter answered, couldn't have been more than fifteen or so. Even he was younger than Peter had been.

After a second, Peter nodded. Six mouths fell open, and he felt a smile spreading across his face. Somehow, this didn't feel scary at all. "Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man, at your service."

The chubby boy's face lit up like he'd just met Santa Claus. "Whoa," he breathed. " _Awesome_."

Suddenly, six kids were like a mob.

"Do you have your costume with you?"

"Do something!"

"Are you a mutant, too?"

"How old are you?"

"Have you met Batman?"

"Batman's not real, dummy."

"Is so!"

"Have you ever fought Magneto?"

"Do you have a girlfriend?" 

The oldest boy hung back until Peter had answered the younger kids' questions as best he could and was heading out the front door.

"Hey, you're Peter, right?" the boy said, catching up with him outside.

"Yeah."

"I'm Bobby," the boy said, and stuck out his hand.

Peter smiled and shook it. "Nice to meet you."

"You too." Bobby looked down, then back up. "Um. I was wondering. Do you like basketball?"

"You mean playing? Or watching it on TV? 'Cause I'm not a huge sports fan or anything."

"Playing."

Peter nodded. "Sure, sometimes."

Now Bobby was getting that Santa Claus look. "Cool. If you want to, you know, play with us sometime…"

He looked so hopeful and was so obviously trying to play it cool that Peter had to fight a smile. "That sounds great," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Definitely."

Bobby grinned. "I've got to tell Pete and Johnny! They're not going to _believe_ this." He started to jog off, then turned and waved. "Thanks, Spider-Man! Bye!"

Peter waited until he was in Hank's car to start laughing.


	6. Trenchcoat Jedi, Guinea Pigs, and Free Booze

Peter couldn't stop thinking about it. Everything. The way those kids had looked at him, like he was some sort of celebrity. The way Bobby's smile had seemed like it was about to crack his cheeks when Peter said he'd like to play basketball sometime. Hank. The way he'd felt, what seemed like a long time ago, when he'd told Hank (and Scott, and Jean) about being Spider-Man.

He'd thought about this stuff yesterday afternoon during Calc II, then while he was skimming the reading for Western Civ. As he ate a Cup O' Noodles for dinner. While he was crouched on top of a streetlamp, waiting for something to happen.

Around 2 AM, Peter had talked a very drunk guy named Ross out of jumping off a roof and had listened about how Ross' girlfriend was cheating on him with his cousin. He was just recommending that Ross get some counseling when it hit him harder than the vodka on Ross' breath. 

Alcohol. Counseling. A support group!

Or maybe not even a _support_ group. Just a group, for guys like him and Hank and Jean and Scott and everyone. It was perfect. It made _sense_ , after all, for all of them to know each other and pal around. For Spider-Man and the X-Men to know each other, and for all of them to know…well, Daredevil, at least. Problem was, Peter didn't _know_ anyone else. Didn't even know who else was out there, really. Not for sure.

Another problem was that Peter had absolutely no idea how to _find_ Daredevil, other than prowling the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen again and just hoping to get lucky.

Earlier this morning, though, Peter had nearly spat out his coffee when he realized that wasn't quite true. He _did_ know how to find Daredevil. Sort of. Maybe. Which was why he'd raced off campus after Western Civ and headed straight for the _Daily Bugle_ , where he was now.

Of course, it was just his luck that he almost ran smack into Mr. Jameson, whose mustache seemed to bristle with annoyance at the mere sight of him. "Parker!" he barked. "Didn't I fire you last week?"

"Uh. I'm a freelancer, sir," Peter said.

Jameson frowned. "Hmm. You are, aren't you." His eyes narrowed. "Got any pictures of Spider-Man?" he demanded. "Good ones, I mean? In the nude, with a hooker, with a guy, with a goat? Shaking a baby?"

Peter shook his head. "Sorry?"

"Don't be sorry," Jameson snapped. "Just do better. Tell you what," he added. "You're hired! Staff photographer. Your first assignment is to get pictures of Spider-Man by next week. Don't do it? You're fired!" His eyebrows quirked up. "Got it?"

Peter nodded, stunned. "Wow," he managed. "Oh, and thanks! Sir."

"Hookers and goats, Parker! Don't forget it," Jameson called over his shoulder. "And go talk to personnel."

After the paperwork was taken care of, Peter hurried to Ben Urich's desk, since that was what he came to do in the first place. Of course, he wasn't there. Peter was just looking for paper to leave him a note when a reporter a few desks over poked her head around her monitor. "I think Urich's just out having a smoke, if you're looking for him," she said. "Try the roof."

Sure enough, Peter saw a minute later, Ben was indeed out on the roof, hunched up in his trenchcoat and puffing away. He turned when the door squeaked and gave Peter an appraising glance. "Huh. I didn't know you smoked."

"Ew, me? Yuck. No way," Peter said, before he realized that probably was rude. "Just looking for you."

Ben nodded and blew out another cloud of smoke, squinting a little. "What's up?"

"Jameson hired me." Which wasn't what was up at all, but it was a start.

Ben looked…well, as impressed as he ever looked. "Yeah? Well. Welcome aboard." He gave Peter a tiny smile as he flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "And good luck."

"Thanks." Peter slid his hands in his pockets and looked up at the sky for a second. Blank and whitish gray, it looked like rain again. "So, he said after a minute, "I heard this rumor, awhile ago…"

Ben gave him a look over the rims of his glasses and stuck his hand in the pocket of his coat. Peter tried not to look grossed out as Ben pulled out his pack of Camel Lights and fished out another cigarette. He knew the guy smoked like a chimney on his cigarette breaks, but _man_.

He didn't light this one right away, though. Just held it between his fingers and sort of waggled it back and forth, waiting for Peter to continue. Peter cleared his throat.

"Anyway," he said, "what I heard was that you were, like, obsessed with Daredevil, for awhile. But then you dropped it, and there wasn't ever a story?"

Very deliberately, never taking his eyes off Peter, Ben brought the cigarette to his lips and cupped his hand around the tip. His lighter clicked. He shrugged. "Turns out there was no story."

"And you just gave up?" Peter pressed. "Totally wrote Daredevil off? Didn't care if you found out who he really was?"

Ben's shoulders hunched up again. "It was a waste of time."

"Great," Peter muttered, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the rooftop.

"What're you asking about Daredevil for, anyway?" Ben asked after a minute. "Get tired of chasing Spider-Man?"

Peter looked up and wet his lips. For a split second, he actually thought about telling him why. Ben was a decent guy--the only one he really talked to, at the _Bugle_ \--and Peter could tell there was a lot more to him than he liked to let on. And this whole 'telling people' thing was getting easier all the time, and--

And he was obviously sleep deprived, high on caffeine and secondhand smoke, and out of his freaking _mind_. Ben was a reporter! What was he _thinking_? Peter shook his head to clear it and rubbed the back of his neck nervously. 

"Well," he said, thinking fast, "uh, yeah. Now that I'm officially working here, I figured it'd be cool if I could get in touch with Daredevil and maybe get pictures of him, too. Maybe him and Spider-Man together! That'd be neat."

"Huh." Ben was quiet for a minute. He took a drag of his smoke, then let it out slowly, nodding. "Funny, isn't it," he said at last.

"What?"

"Well," Ben said slowly, "there's Spider-Man. And we've all heard of him, but nobody can get so much as a traffic camera picture with him in it. And then here you come in one day, some college kid with high school yearbook experience and not much else, and all of a sudden, the _Bugle's_ got front-page, perfect quality photos of Spider-Man, whenever Jonah wants 'em. And yet, somehow, no one else does." He gestured with his cigarette for emphasis. "It's just…funny."

Peter's heart was tap-dancing. He swallowed hard and made a conscious effort not to back up a couple steps. "So? What are you saying?"

Ben shrugged. "Just that, if you're friends with Spider-Man, think about it. If he ever trusts you enough to take off that mask in front of you, are you gonna snap pictures?"

Peter's eyes widened. "So you _do_ \--"

"I've said all I'm going to say."

Peter took a deep breath. "Look," he said, as Ben ground this cigarette out and turned to go, " _if_ I were friends with Spider-Man, and _if_ you did know who Daredevil really was, don’t you think you could tell me? I mean, we know-- _everyone_ knows _they_ have to know each other."

Ben's smile was quick and sharp. "Sure, kid. Assuming we do know the things you said, you got a deal. Tell me who Spider-Man is, and I'll tell you anything you want to know."

Dammit. And now Peter was fish-facing at him and wondering if they _both_ knew--or if Ben at least suspected--who Spider-Man really was. Crap.

Ben snorted. "Yeah, didn't think so. But you're a good friend, Peter," he added over his shoulder. "Good for you."

After Ben went back inside, Peter stayed on the roof for awhile, staring up at the sky and thinking about just how untrue that statement was.

\---

Peter didn't have any better luck using the internet in one of the computer labs on campus after his afternoon class. A Google search for 'daredevil' came up with a bunch of stuff about Evel Knievel, a few pages about X-Treme sports, and a couple of articles--mostly from the _Bugle_ 's archives--but nothing helpful. Apparently, Daredevil was just as much of a menace as Spider-Man, maybe even more, and had even been seen participating in a satanic ritual with Elvis, Nostradamus, and a woman with an alien baby. (Thank you, _National Tattler_.) But the internet turned up nothing, absolutely nothing, of use.

It had started to rain while Peter was surfing the 'net, and his shoes got soaked on the way home. He bought a slice of cheese pizza he couldn't afford from the place on the corner and told himself it'd be okay, now that he had a job. He wolfed it down outside so Mr. Ditkovich wouldn't see and start bitching about eating instead of paying rent, then trudged upstairs, dumped his backpack, and peeled off his jacket. Thought about getting started on his homework but flopped on the bed instead.

The rain wasn't messing around. It pounded against the window and somehow sounded as cold as it had felt on the walk home. At least tonight was a cat pee night for the radiator. 

When the phone rang, Peter was tempted to ignore it. Moving just seemed like too much _work_. Then again, Aunt May often called in the evening, and if he wasn't home, she'd worry. With a groan, he sat up and grabbed the receiver on the fourth ring. "Oof. Hello?"

For a second, there was just a rustling noise on the other end, then a couple of beeps, and Peter got ready to hang up on an automated telemarketer. Then, "Good evening, Peter. Is this an inopportune time?"

"Hey, Hank," Peter said, surprised. "It's fine. What's up?"

"How are you?" Hank asked, which either meant nothing was up, or if something was, he didn't want to get into it yet.

Peter shrugged and pulled the phone cradle over onto his lap, then settled back against the headboard. "I'm okay." He breathed in ammonia-scented air, which, if nothing else, made him feel a little less hungry. One slice of pizza just didn't cut it. "Oh, hey. I got hired at the _Bugle_ today. Staff photographer."

"Hmm," Hank said. "Should I congratulate you or offer my deepest sympathies?"

"Jameson wants really awful pictures of Spider-Man. Like, tabloid stuff."

"Oh, Peter. That must be a difficult situation."

Peter sighed. "Yep." Then, as Hank rustled again, he frowned. "What are you doing, anyway? You sound funny. Like, echo-y."

"Speakerphone," Hank explained after a too-long pause. "While manipulating the receiver is, at the moment, beyond my capabilities, I wished to find out if using my--ahem--my claws to depress the buttons would be a solution," he said. "And, after a few failed attempts in which I was unspeakably rude to the pre-recorded 'if you would like to make a call, please hang up and dial again' message, not to mention an accidental call to the Ramone residence…well. Here we are."

Peter didn't really know what to say to that. He closed his eyes and tried not to picture Hank--'watch me make precise, microscopic adjustments on this million-dollar piece of equipment while whistling show tunes' Hank--hunting and pecking over telephone buttons. He tried to smile a little, on the off chance Hank could hear it. "I'm glad you called."

"Well. You're merely the _Cavia porcellus_ , my friend," Hank said lightly. "My true intent is to order Chinese food."

"Guinea pig?" Peter guessed, trying not to laugh.

"Indeed!" Hank sounded delighted. "Contextual assumption?"

"Zoology, last year. We spent a week on rodents."

"Ah."

Peter smiled and shifted so that he was more lying down than sitting up. "So, I--"

"Actually, Peter--" Hank said at the same instant.

"Go ahead," Peter said.

Hank must've been sitting pretty close to the microphone, because Peter clearly heard him sigh. "It's--well. It's of no importance," he said after a minute.

"You sure?"

"I'm certain."

They talked for a couple more minutes before Hank said he had to go. After they'd hung up, Peter just stared at the black plastic phone, more determined than ever to do _something_ for Hank. No matter what it took.

And that was why, a few hours later, Spider-Man walked into Josie's (not José's) Bar and bought everyone a round. 

"Listen up!" he said loudly, as the guys who hadn't run out the door when he came in were looking at each other and shrugging and starting in on their free beers. "I need to know who Daredevil is, okay? If anybody knows, or if anybody has heard anything about his real identity, I'll be over there, in the corner." He pointed. " _Capisce_?"

And _that_ was how Spider-Man ended up sitting in the corner of Josie's Bar all night, not even drinking water (mask issues) and doing diddly-squat.

Well, not quite diddly-squat. Just diddly, maybe. A handful of guys came over, mostly really drunk ones, casting furtive glances over their shoulders…or amused glances to a table full of their buddies, in on the joke. Daredevil was, apparently, Satan himself. Someone Spider-Man should know already, since they probably sucked each other's dicks. A mutant. A Russian spy. (Granted, the guy who suggested this was old enough for it not to be entirely ridiculous.) An ex-Navy SEAL.

Whatever.

Peter finally gave up when Josie said it was last call. He was halfway down the block and about to head upwards when he heard someone call quietly behind him. "Yo! Spider-Man!"

He turned, wishing the guy could see the look he was getting. " _What_."

"Whoa," the man said, eyebrows rising. "Thought you wanted to know something."

"Yeah, but I've spent the night listening to bullshit," Peter pointed out. "And as much as more would be really great right now… No thanks."

The guy spread his hands. "Yeah, but this? It's worth something."

"Fine. What?"

"Not so fast." He smiled, revealing a gold front tooth. "What'cha got?"

Crap. "Look," Peter said, thinking fast, "I'm assuming you're not Daredevil's biggest fan, right? You'll get the satisfaction of knowing that you made his life hell. This isn't going to be a friendly call," he added, hoping he sounded menacing.

"You going to kick his ass?"

"You know it. I could take him."

The gold tooth flashed again in a grin. "Okay. I don't got beef with you, you know? And if you come to the Kitchen, or whatever, you'll owe me. Right?"

"Oh, definitely."

"Okay," the guy said with a shrug. "I heard from this guy, who heard from a guy he knows, who heard from his girlfriend, who's brother's supposed to work for the Kingpin--or a guy who works for the Kingpin, or something. Anyway, there was talk awhile ago that Daredevil is really just some lawyer named Matt Murdock." He shrugged again. "Me? _I_ dunno. Saw the guy on TV once, and he's some crippled dude. Blind, or somethin'. But, far as I know, that's the only name's ever linked with Daredevil. You know?"

"A blind lawyer," Peter said flatly. "Wow. Thanks a lot."

"Hey, man, you asked."

"Don't remind me!" Peter called over his shoulder as he swung up to the roof. Once he was sure he was out of the guy's sight, though, he let himself do a little victory-shimmy in midair, out over the street. Squirt, down, up, release. Run across a rooftop, jump, repeat. He lost himself in the rhythm of it, thinking hard. 

Okay, so, it wasn't much. And what he had was ludicrous. Daredevil, a _lawyer_ , famous enough (even though Peter had never heard of him) to be on TV? A _blind_ lawyer?

But. At least he had a name to go on. And maybe…maybe it wasn't so ridiculous. Who knew? Maybe he was a lawyer, _and_ he was Daredevil, and the blind (or otherwise 'crippled,' whatever) thing was an act. Or maybe this Matt Murdock (blind or not) was just a regular lawyer and this was somebody's idea of a joke. 

One thing was for sure, though. It couldn't hurt to find out.


	7. Is your refrigerator running?

It seemed like luck was on Peter's side, for a change. First he'd gotten Matt Murdock's name last night. Then, when he'd borrowed (well, swiped but intended to return) Mr. Ditkovich's Yellow Pages, it turned out there was only one law office in Manhattan with a 'Murdock' in the name. 

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean anything. For all Peter knew, Matt Murdock was a low-level lawyer at a firm with other guys' names in the title. Maybe even one of the ones Peter had snickered at in the phone book, like 'Arnold, Arnold, Arnold, and Arnold' or 'Johnson and Bottom.'

Still, 'Nelson and Murdock' seemed like a good place to start, especially if this Matt Murdock was some hotshot TV lawyer. And especially since the offices of Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law just happened to be in Hell's Kitchen.

Another lucky thing was that all of Peter's Friday classes happened to be ones he could skip with a reasonably clear conscience. His attendance had been pretty good (well, better) this semester, and he was within catching-up distance on the reading. And, funny enough, the only classes Peter had this semester where the professor took attendance were Hank's.

Well, no. That wasn't funny at all. It was about as un-funny as the sign Peter had seen yesterday taped to the door of Hamilton 112 when he was walking to the computer lab. 'Dr. McCoy's classes canceled until further notice. Tests will be rescheduled.'

At least the hot water had lasted for all but the last thirty seconds of his shower earlier this morning, and his shoes had dried out all the way. _And_ he'd found a faded ten-dollar bill crumpled in the pocket of his only pair of clean jeans. The way things were going lately, Peter figured he'd take what luck he could get and be grateful for it.

He couldn't help hoping for just a _tiny_ bit more, though, as he sat on the edge of his bed and dialed the number for Nelson and Murdock. His foot jiggled impatiently as it rang. His whole body felt tingly--not spidey-sense tingly, just tense and sort of excited. What if Daredevil answered? Would the big D. recognize his voice? Would _he_ recognize _Daredevil's_ voice?

On the second ring, Peter realized with a jolt of panic that he hadn't really figured out what to say if Daredevil _did_ answer. Or if he got Daredevil's voicemail, or--

"Good morning, Nelson and Murdock," a woman said brightly. And oh, duh, law office. He hadn't even _thought_ about a secretary.

"Is, um." Peter gulped. "Is--may I speak to Matt Murdock, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Murdock is with a client," the secretary replied. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Uh, sure. I guess so," Peter said, still busily trying to wrap his mind around the idea that he'd actually found Matt Murdock, possibly Daredevil, on the first try. "Would you tell him that--"

Oh, crap-ola. Peter frowned and jiggled his foot faster, thinking.

"Yes?"

"Sorry," Peter said. "Would you tell Matt Murdock that his--his buddy called? S.M.? His S.M. buddy?" A split second later, Peter's brain caught up with his babbling, and his palm smacked his forehead. His cheeks were suddenly on _fire_. 

"Um," he said helpfully, into the stunned silence, "he'll know what you mean."

Click. 

Peter sighed and dialed again.

"Good morning, Nelson and Murdock."

"Hi, this is S.M. Buddy again. Matt's friend? I--"

Click.

Redial.

"Nelson and Murdock." _Definitely_ less cheerful, this time.

"Hi, please don't hang up," Peter said in a rush. "I need to talk to Matt Murdock, but it's kind of private and really important, and would you please just ask him to call his buddy from a couple nights ago at--"

Click.

Given the circumstances, Peter thought it was probably smart of him to wait until lunchtime before going to Nelson and Murdock's offices. Even smarter to wait across the street, watching the door, until he saw a young woman walk outside and down the steps. Once she was a safe distance down the block, he tried (again) to talk himself out of this, then headed over.

Peter had never been in a law office before, so he didn't really know what he'd been expecting. Something impersonal and fancy, maybe, like the lobby of a bank. This definitely wasn't impersonal or fancy. Nice, yeah, with a wood floor and a couple of potted plants--ficus, maybe. Or was it ficuses? Or fici? Plants, anyway. And the secretary's desk, a few nice chairs to wait in, and a couple of paintings. 

But the place felt lived-in. It wasn't shabby, or anything, but there was definitely a vibe. Maybe it was the coffee. It had that smell, like in the _Bugle_ 's break room, where you could tell they brewed a lot, and often.

There was a hall leading out from the front room (nice as it was, he couldn't honestly call it a lobby), and, presumably, the lawyers' offices were back there somewhere. But before Peter could poke around in search of Matt Murdock, a shortish, heavyset guy came out from the hall and headed for the coffeepot. He was reading something on a yellow legal pad as he walked, mouthing the words silently, with his other hand gesturing as if he were making a speech. Peter's heart sank. No way was _this_ Daredevil.

Still reading, the man fumbled for the handle of the coffeepot, then looked up and did a double-take. "Oh! Hi." He set the notepad on top of the coffee maker and turned to Peter. "Sorry, didn't see you. Do you have an appointment?"

Peter shook his head. "Not exactly. I--um. I mean, are you Matt Murdock?"

"Nope," the guy said, seeming surprised. Then he smiled. "I'm the _other_ half of Nelson and Murdock. You're here to see Matt?"

"Yeah, I'm--" Hmm. Maybe better not try to explain at all, this time. "I am. Is that okay?"

Nelson shrugged and waved him in the direction of the hall before reaching for the coffeepot again. "Sure, go on back. Second door on the right."

"Thanks," Peter said, probably a lot more fervently than was necessary. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace and tried to convince his breathing not to speed up, either. His heartbeat marched--or rather, raced--to its own drummer, though. He sort of felt sick. 

How would _he_ feel, Peter wondered, if the situation were reversed and Daredevil showed up outside one of his classes, or at his apartment? 

This was so wrong. And so huge. Maybe probably definitely a really bad idea. And what if this Matt Murdock guy wasn't Daredevil, after all? And what if (Peter couldn't decide if this would be worse or not)--what if he _was_? 

The door was halfway open. There really was no going back, not with Matt Murdock right in there and Nelson out front pouring coffee, so Peter took a deep breath and knocked.

"Come in."

And…Peter couldn't tell if he recognized his voice or not. He went in, making sure to close the door behind him.

Matt Murdock was seated at his desk, wearing one of those earpiece-headphones hooked over one ear, with a laptop and a thick book open in front of him. Peter took him in quickly. Older than Peter, but still pretty young, probably no more than Hank's age. Definitely not short and pudgy. Good-looking. Light brownish-reddish hair. Sunglasses.

Matt Murdock shot a sort of puzzled smile towards the door. "Hello?"

Right, Peter remembered. Blind. (Or playing blind.) "Um, hi," he said, and God knew why he added an awkward little wave. "Matt Murdock?"

"That's me. Can I help you?"

"Maybe? Well, I mean, I hope so," Peter stammered. He glanced at the door and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. Then he looked back at Matt Murdock. Stared, actually, because the thing was, he couldn't tell. 

Even squinting, Peter couldn't really get a clear idea of what he'd look like with a red leather mask covering half his face. And even if he could have, he didn't have a good enough mental snapshot of Daredevil to compare. It didn't help that they'd only talked a couple of times, and always at night.

And it didn't help that everything was so _different_. The voice was different; softer than Daredevil's deep, gravelly rasp. Then there was the red hair, and the suit, and--and he seemed so _normal_. The whole blind thing was really throwing Peter, too, between the sunglasses and the spartan office and the body language. It was really hard to picture the guy sitting in front of him doing backflips off rooftops.

Great, and now he was raising an eyebrow in Peter's direction. "I'm sorry," Matt said, his tone somewhere between amused and impatient, "maybe you didn't know, but I'm blind. So, if you're over there acting out your legal needs in mime, I'm going to have to ask you to speak up. Okay?"

"Sorry," Peter mumbled, feeling his cheeks go hot. God, he really was just a regular, blind, non-Daredevil dude. All of a sudden, Peter felt awful for coming in the first place. He darted another glance at the door.

Matt shrugged. "It's okay. Have a seat?" he added, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk. "And then, why don't you tell me who you are, and why you're here."

For a second, Peter was tempted to bolt. Then he thought of Hank, and why he was trying to do this in the first place. He sat. Then wet his lips. Then swallowed. His foot was bouncing again, and he wasn't sure he could make it stop if he wanted to.

Matt was waiting, facing him expectantly with his hands clasped on top of the desk. Peter took a deep breath, gripped the wooden arms of the chair, and closed his eyes. 

"Mr. Murdock, my name is Peter Parker," he said, very quietly. At least his voice didn't shake. "And I'm Spider-Man."

He opened his eyes and raised them to Matt's face to watch his reaction. And it was kind of anti-climactic, actually. He just went very still for a second, then sat back in his chair and nodded a couple of times.

"Oh," Matt said. "Well." Both of his eyebrows rose, this time, but his voice was perfectly calm as he continued. "Are you looking for legal representation? As you may know, we count the Fantastic Four among our clients, so we do have experience with--"

So, no. Not Daredevil, after all. Peter felt like it wouldn't be very hard to cry. Or throw up. Or both. "Uh, no. I guess not," he stammered, sounding almost as strangled and shaky as he felt. "I was just here trying to help a friend, and I thought--but--" His body was tense, poised to stand, and he racked his brain for a good excuse to get the heck out.

"Must be a good friend," Matt remarked, cocking his head in what Peter figured was a blind guy's equivalent of a curious look. Scott did the same thing, what with the visor and all. "From what I've heard, I thought Spider-Man was supposed to be the most mysterious of all those superhero types. I thought he didn't tell _anybody_ who he was."

"Two people," Peter said. And it was true, if you only counted the times that mattered, when he was actually taking a risk.

"Including me?"

Peter nodded before he remembered that Matt couldn't see him. "Yeah. I kind of save it for when it's _really_ important, you know?"

Matt didn't say anything. Just sat there and kept his hands clasped and his head tilted, like he was really listening to and digesting all of this. 

There was something vaguely familiar in his posture, Peter realized. Enough of a tiny whisper of possibility to make him take a deep breath and add, "I really wanted to tell this other, um, buddy of mine. There's a lot I want to talk to him about, but…"

Peter trailed off, leaving the room in silence. Decided that he would just run, without saying anything, if he was wrong. 

At last, very slowly, Matt took off his earpiece and turned to face him. A tiny smile quirked the corner of his mouth upwards. "But you were afraid he might object to that?" he asked. His smile deepened--became very wry and very _recognizable_ \--when Peter gasped. "Or were you just afraid he'd be kind of a bastard about it?"

"Holy crap, it _is_ you!"

Matt grinned as he stood up and extended his hand across the desk. "So. Peter Parker, huh?"

"I--yeah." Peter stood and shook hands. Shook his head, too. " _Jeez_ , you freaked me out."

"Sorry," Matt said, though he didn't sound it. "I needed a minute to think. Besides, I wanted to make sure _you_ knew."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Because I routinely go into random lawyers' offices and tell them I'm Spider-Man?"

"Shh." Matt nodded meaningfully towards the door. "If we're going to talk--which I think we should--then, not here. Want to go for a burger? Have you had lunch?"

"I could eat something," Peter said, which was, like, the understatement of the century. "But aren't you working? And isn't a restaurant kind of, you know, public?"

"It's Friday afternoon, and it's been awhile since I've taken off early," Matt said with a shrug. "Besides, Foggy and I don't have anything scheduled."

"Foggy? That's the other guy--Nelson?"

Matt nodded. "As for the other thing, well, I'm starving. Think we can be creative enough not to make it obvious what we're talking about?"

"I guess so." Peter shrugged, then smiled. "Like, instead of superhe--well, you-know-whats, we can say 'pirates.'"

"Or something," Matt agreed. He typed something on his laptop, then closed it and reached for some kind of baton-looking thingie on the edge of his desk. Then he put on his long, tan coat, slid the baton in his pocket, and turned to Peter. "Just let me tell Foggy I'm leaving, and we can go."

"Sure," Peter said as he followed him out. Foggy's office door was closed, but Matt didn't bother to knock before he stuck his head in.

"Foggy?"

His ninety-miles-an-hour typing didn't even pause. "Yo."

"I'm heading out," Matt said. "Something came up."

"Everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah, nothing like that. It's…" Matt's hand made circles by his side, like he was fishing for a reason and not getting any nibbles. Peter thought fast.

"I'm, um, doing a story for my school paper," he interrupted. "Mr. Murdock was nice enough to say I can interview him over lunch."

"Right," Matt agreed. "One of those, 'justice is blind, and so's this lawyer' things."

"Thought you hated those." Foggy sounded surprised. "No offense, kid."

Peter winced. "I'm persuasive?"

"Oh, you're buying lunch." Foggy chuckled. "I get it."

"Hey!" Matt said, grinning. "It's free publicity."

"Yeah, yeah. Get out of here, media whore."


	8. Yo-Ho-Hold the Onions

"Thanks," Matt said, once they had stepped outside. "You're good."

"Me? _You_ didn't miss a beat!"

Matt shrugged and reached into his coat pocket. "Unfortunately, I've had a lot of practice," he said as he took out his baton and shook it. Peter was puzzled until it extended, turning into a long, white cane that Matt used to feel around with for the top of the stairs.

"Man, that has _got_ to suck," Peter said a few moments later. He shook his head, watching Matt move the cane from side to side as they made their way down the sidewalk. And so easily, too! He looked completely natural.

"What?"

"The whole thing," Peter replied, still staring, amazed at the way Matt's face was sort of tilted upwards, clearly not watching where he was going. "You have it _down_. I swear, if I didn't know better... How long did you have to practice, anyway, to be so convincing as a blind guy?"

Matt stopped short. "Wait," He said slowly, sounding incredulous, "you think--" 

Then he cut himself off, gave a nonchalant shrug, and started walking again. "It took awhile. The cane wasn't too bad, but learning Braille was a real bitch."

"You even learned to read _Braille_? Jeez!"

"Oh, yeah," Matt replied with a nod. "I went all out."

"I guess!" And here Peter had thought wearing clear-lens glasses to class once in awhile and being clumsy on purpose sometimes was a really terrific, super-sneaky disguise.

"Of course," Matt added after a minute, "actually, y'know, _being_ blind helps, some." 

Peter nearly tripped. "Wait. _What_?"

Matt grinned, looking smug.

"I--you--" Peter shook his head and opened his mouth a few times, struggling to put words into sentences. Or even complete thoughts. " _How_? And oh, my _God_ , you were totally messing with me!"

"Yep." Matt laughed. "But hey, you deserved it. Assuming like that, making an ass out of…well. Just you."

"Ho-ly crap," was all Peter could manage.

Matt laughed again and led the way into a bistro on the corner, leaving Peter to scrape his jaw up off the pavement and follow.

"So," Peter said, after they'd been shown to a table by the back wall, " _are_ you going to tell me how?"

Matt finished telescoping his cane back up into what Peter now recognized as Daredevil's billy club. He gave Peter a mysterious smile, obviously enjoying this. "What are you thinking?" He asked. "I've been hungry for a burger with Swiss all day. And maybe some onion rings. They're excellent here, but the orders are huge. Want to share some?"

Peter resigned himself to not getting answers yet and tried to remember how much cash was in his wallet. "That sounds good," he said, hardly able to believe he was sitting with Daredevil-- _blind_ Daredevil!--in street clothes and talking about food. "I like onion rings."

"The beer on tap's good, too."

Peter coughed. "I'm, uh, not actually old enough to drink," he admitted. He was sort of glad Matt couldn't see right now, if that meant he didn't know he was blushing.

Blind or not, Matt turned to him and _seemed_ to be staring, behind the shades, and just about had to pick _his_ jaw up, this time. "You're bullshitting me! I knew you were young, but--Christ! How old _are_ you?"

"I'll be twenty-one in April."

"Whoa." Matt shook his head. "And you've been in the papers--doing pirate stuff--for, what, two years?"

"Three."

"Now I _want_ to buy you a beer."

Peter laughed. "Hey, whatever floats your boat."

Matt didn't, though, when their waiter came. In fact, he just ordered an iced tea himself. Once they'd gotten their drinks and ordered their food, he took a drink of his tea and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. "So, you were what, seventeen?"

"Yeah. My senior year of high school."

"How'd it happen?"

"No fair," Peter protested, after he'd swallowed a swig of Coke. "I asked you first. Though I think I sort of get it, a little," he added.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yep. The other night." Peter lowered his voice to a whisper, though he wasn't really concerned about other people hearing. There was nobody at the next table over, and between the background music and people talking, it wasn't exactly quiet. Mostly, he just wanted to test his hypothesis. "You heard me talking, several buildings over."

Matt smiled and nodded. "That's part of it, yeah."

"Cool. How--you know. _How_ good?"

"Heartbeats. From a distance."

"Whoa. Wow. What else?"

Matt was quiet a minute, with his eyebrows drawn together, like he was trying to figure out how to explain without saying anything incriminating. "Well…same thing with touch, enough to read print. Sort of a sixth sense, like echolocation. Taste, though that's usually not very useful. And smell."

Peter's eyes widened. "Oh, so _that's_ why you believed me when I…said I was Bluebeard. I wondered."

"I knew I knew you when you came in. Took a minute to place you, though."

"Wow," Peter said again. Then he snorted. "Never in a million years would I have recognized _you_. You know, I didn't even know for sure when I told you?"

Matt chuckled. "I figured. You sounded like you were about to piss your pants."

"I sort of was afraid of that."

"So, what about you?" Matt asked after a minute. "I think I understand how you, well, go about the business of pirating. But…how'd you get started? What happened?"

"Um. I got bitten."

"By--? Oh! A normal one?"

"Genetically modified."

"Huh. I got a faceful of biohazardous chemicals when I was a kid."

"Ouch," Peter said. "And is that how you--"

"Went blind?" Matt nodded. "Yeah."

"Oh, hey, our waiter's coming back," Peter said quietly.

Matt swallowed another drink of iced tea, then smiled. "I know. And by the way, your burger's a little overdone."

After they'd salted and ketchuped and started eating--and Peter had gotten over being startled that Matt was right about his cheeseburger--Peter took a bite of an admittedly-awesome onion ring and promptly almost choked on it. 

"Oh, rats! I forgot to tell you. I think your secretary might think you're gay and into bondage, and it's kind of my fault. So, um, sorry about that."

"Excuse me?"

By the time Peter had finished explaining, Matt's face was even redder than his hair. Or it had been, before he'd buried his face in his hand. "Oh, _man_ ," he gasped. "That is just priceless. My S&M buddy! Foggy would _die_."

Peter groaned, though he was trying not to crack up, too. Somehow, it was a lot funnier now that he had a few hours' distance. "No! We tell no one about this! It's the pirate code!"

Matt looked up, his smile fading. "It's kind of a moot point. He doesn't know, so I couldn't explain."

"Ohh, right." Peter nodded slowly. "Um, does anyone know?"

"My ex-girlfriend, but she found out by accident. And a guy who's sort of a friend, who figured it out on his own. But Foggy…no. And he's my best friend. Maybe that's _why_."

Peter nodded again, around a bite of burger, then glanced up sharply as something occurred to him. "Hey, I think we have a mutual friend! Think _Daily Bugle_?"

Matt looked surprised. "Yeah, actually. How'd you know?"

"I work there. I'm a photographer."

"He didn't say anything, did he?" Matt asked suspiciously.

"Nope. You can trust him, I think," Peter said. "But that reminds me, you have a rumor problem. I found you in less than 24 hours. And you're good--I was thinking I had the wrong guy--but, well, it's bad. I might be able to help with that, though," he added. "Find the guy who told me, rough him up a little, tell him he wasted my time on a wild goose chase…"

"I'd appreciate that." Matt ate a couple of onion rings, then wiped the grease off his fingers onto his napkin with a wince, as if it really bugged him. "So," he said, "what about you, Peter? Just two people?"

"Well, sort of. Two people when it mattered."

"And the other one, he's your friend with the problem?" Matt guessed.

"Yeah," Peter said. "And actually, this is why I wanted to talk to you in the first place. You know how we were talking the other night, about how it was weird--but I thought pretty cool--to have a conversation like that?"

Matt nodded. 

"Okay. Well. That friend of mine? He's also a pirate. In fact, he introduced me to his, um, whole pirate crew."

Matt's eyebrows climbed. "You mean--wait, is your friend, uh, fantastic?"

"Nope," Peter said. "Different pirate ship. They're sort of… _ex_ -cellent."

"Who?"

"Nevermind. Anyway, I started thinking. He introduced me to _his_ friends, so... You know how they have, like, groups? Narcotics Anonymous, PFLAG, stuff like that?" Peter took a breath, then a drink. "What if _we_ did something like that? Like us right now, but with a few more people? Might be kind of cool."

Matt frowned as he drained his glass. "I don't know," he said slowly. "It's a nice idea, but the potential ramifications… Surely you can see why I'm a little reluctant."

"It wouldn't _have_ to be huge," Peter pointed out. "I've thought about it, and what if we started out slowly? You, me, my best friend, and another guy who's sort of the pirate captain of my friend's crew. They're both great."

Matt was quiet while their waiter came and took their plates and brought the bill. After a minute, Peter realized that Matt couldn't very well read it in public, so he picked it up and saw, to his surprise, that he could afford to pay the whole thing.

"Hey, I'll treat," he offered, reaching for his wallet. "It's the least I can do, after barging in on you and all."

"You sure? Thanks," Matt said. "I'll leave the tip."

"So," Peter said, once they were outside, "about the thing…?"

Matt sighed through his nose. "Honestly, the idea makes me a little uncomfortable." 

"So, no?" Peter tried not to let himself sound too disappointed, though he probably failed miserably.

"I didn't say that," Matt said, then startled Peter by reaching over and touching Peter's elbow as they started to thread their way through a bunch of people crowded in front of a bookstore. He let his hand drop after they'd crossed the street. "I just don't know. I will admit, lunch was fun. I hadn't thought about it, but I do like the idea of being able to talk about this. But…you're _sure_ I could trust them?"

"Definitely! I mean, it's sort of a thing. You wouldn't tell about me, because then I could turn around and tell about you. Same with them. Trust based on everyone wanting to cover their own butt, if nothing else."

Matt nodded and went quiet again, then flinched as they passed a hot dog cart. Peter stuck his hands into his jacket pockets and looked down at the pavement.

"Well," Matt said after a minute, "how did you envision this working? When do you want this big meeting to take place?"

Peter's heart jumped. "Um…I hadn't really thought that far," he admitted. "They live in Westchester County, and I have to return my friend's car anyway, so, maybe we could drive there, then get a ride back? If that works for you?"

"Sure."

"How about tomorrow?"

Matt shook his head. "Can't, sorry. I'm swamped this weekend. Research."

"Oh." Peter tried not to be disappointed again. "Well--"

"What about this afternoon?" Matt asked. "I need to go back to the office for an hour or so--forgot I'm expecting a call--but after that, if you want to pick me up…"

"Wow. Um. Okay," Peter replied, reeling a little.

"Do you have a pen? I'll give you my cell number, and then you can just call on your way over."

"Um. I sort of don't have a cell phone." Or even a cordless phone, for that matter, but Matt probably didn't need to know that.

"I can wait outside, then. How does a quarter to three sound?"

"Sounds great," Peter said, more enthusiastically than he felt. "Spiffy."

 

After they'd parted ways, it started to sink in. Spider-Man was about to introduce Daredevil to Cyclops and Beast. It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. It was also sort of starting to sound like a bad idea again. What was he _thinking_? Peter wondered as he headed back to his apartment. Was he _nuts_?

By the time he'd closed the door behind him and tossed his jacket on the foot of the bed, Peter's stomach was in knots. This was all happening so fast! The fact that it was going as planned was great, and all, but he'd thought he'd have more _time_.

There was only one thing to do. With jittery fingers, Peter picked up the telephone and dialed the main number for Xavier's that Hank had given him, then perched on the edge of the bed as it rang.

"Good afternoon, Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," a woman said pleasantly. Peter didn't recognize her voice but could tell she wasn't a student. He guessed she was that other teacher--Roh, or something--he'd heard everyone mention but hadn't met.

"Um, hi," Peter said. "Is Professor Xavier there, please?"

"May I tell him who's calling?"

"Sure, my name's Peter Parker."

A short pause, and then, "Oh, Hank's friend! I'll put you right through, Peter. Hold on."

Peter waited, wondering if absolutely _everyone_ over there knew who he was. After a minute, he heard an extension being picked up. "Hello?" said the Professor's deep voice. "Mr. Parker?"

"Hi, Professor Xavier. How are you?"

"I'm very well, thank you. And you?"

"I'm…" Peter tapped his thumb against his knee, still nervous. "Um, not great? Well, sort of good. It depends how this call goes."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I--well. You know I'm Spider-Man, right?"

"I do."

"Well, I know Daredevil," Peter said. "Do you know about Daredevil? He's another--"

"I've heard of him. In fact, I believe I read a piece about him in the _Daily Bugle_ recently."

"Oh, okay. Turns out, he's a really decent guy," Peter continued. "And with some of the stuff that's been going on lately, I was thinking. What about a sort of support group, for people like us?"

The Professor didn't say anything.

Peter winced and babbled on. "It just seems to make sense, you know? We could all hang out as ourselves, talk about the stuff we can't talk about with other people, help each other get through issues or whatever... We wouldn't be so isolated, with everyone--or every group--doing their own thing. And then, we could be allies too, _in_ costume. We could handle bigger problems if we all worked together. And--"

He stopped when the Professor started to chuckle. "Peter, do you realize that you've just outlined many of the reasons why I formed this school in the first place?"

Peter felt his shoulders droop. "In other words, you don't see a need? At least, not for the X-Men?"

"On the contrary, I think it's a wonderful idea," the Professor replied. "In fact, I will admit, you've given me a great deal to think about. Before we met, I hadn't given much thought to people like you, who were not born mutants but then developed mutant-like abilities later. I've been focused for so long on the relations between groups of mutants, and mutants and humans, that I have neglected to consider if and how we should interact with others who possess superhuman abilities."

A grin had slowly spread across Peter's face as Professor X spoke, and he clenched his fist in silent victory. "So, if I bring Daredevil over this afternoon, would it be okay with you? I was thinking it would be good to start small. Just me, Matt--that's Daredevil--Hank, and Scott. And you, if you want to," he added.

"I think that would be fine," said the Professor. "In fact, your timing is excellent. Jean and Ororo are leaving in a few moments to take most of the students to the mall and to a movie."

"Really? Perfect. Thanks!" Peter said, meaning it.

"You're most welcome, my boy."


	9. Not-So-Great Responsibilities

Matt was waiting outside on the steps of Nelson & Murdock at 2:47 when Peter drove up, so he didn't have to worry about finding a place to park the Bug. To Peter's surprise, Matt had changed out of his nice pants into a pair of jeans and had taken his suit jacket and tie off.

"At lunch, I could smell that you were wearing jeans. The dye they use on denim…" Matt replied when Peter mentioned it. He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "I didn't want to be overdressed."

Peter snickered. "Daredevil: fiend or fashionista? You decide!"

"Oh, bite me." 

The rest of the ride to Xavier's was like that. Weird as it was, it was like they'd been pals for years. Matt backseat-drove like someone's grandmother the whole way, they compared 'lamest bad guy ever' stories, and, by the time they were approaching the mansion's long driveway, Peter was fully convinced again that this was a most excellent idea.

"Okay," Peter said as they drove through the gate, "now that we're here, there's some stuff you need to know. This is Xavier's School for the Gifted. But that's just a front--it's really a school for teenage mutants. It's been here for a long time, at least a decade or two, and some of the first students stayed here to teach. They also formed the X-Men. They're superheroes, but they mainly deal with mutant-related stuff."

"All right," Matt said slowly, nodding. "So, your friends are the X-Men?"

"Yep, some of 'em, anyway. There's Scott--he's the team leader. And then Hank, the friend I've told you about." Peter paused for a second, debating with himself, before he added, "Also, um, that accident Hank had? It sort of turned him blue and furry and really big. I mean, he was already big. Now he's bigg _er_. I just thought, you know. You might want to know."

"Uh. Thanks."

Peter turned the ignition off and turned to him, feeling nervous again. "Well, here we are."

He knew Daredevil was supposed to be the Man Without Fear, but he would have sworn he saw Matt's hands tighten on the billy-club-slash-cane-handle in his lap, just for an instant, before they climbed out.

By the time they reached the front door, Peter had just started to work himself up into a good mental debate about whether to knock or just go in when he heard Professor X's voice in his head. 

" _Come in_ ," the Professor said, leaving Peter to wonder if he'd read his thoughts or merely sensed his presence. Either way, it was disconcerting, and Peter vowed never, ever to think about sex or other embarrassing things anywhere _near_ the mansion. Which would have been great, had the Professor probably not heard him vowing _that_. Dammit. 

Thankfully, the Professor's tact was as great as his power, and he didn't sound amused when he continued. " _Please make yourself at home in the recreation room. I'll ask Scott and Henry to join you._ "

" _Thanks_ ," Peter thought.

"You going to knock?" Matt asked.

"Nope. We're supposed to go on in." Peter pushed the big, heavy door open. "Professor Xavier said to go to the rec room. He's a mind-reader," he added, seeing Matt's confused look.

"I see," Matt said slowly. He stopped just inside the doorway, eyebrows raised. "Wow, this place is _huge_."

"It's pretty swanky."

Matt nodded. Then frowned, then rapped the end of his cane sharply on the floor a few times. 

Peter was puzzled until he remembered about Matt's sixth sense. And he was dying to ask questions about how that worked, actually, but decided, from the look on Matt's face, that he'd better not. "Rec room's over here," he said instead, leading the way.

They'd barely stepped inside the rec room when Scott strode through the doorway. He stopped short when he saw them and looked from Peter to Matt and back again.

"What the hell?" he said. "Peter? What's going on here?"

"Professor X didn't tell you?"

"He said to come to the rec room," Scott said, folding his arms. "I thought the TV needed to be fixed, or something, but instead I find…you. And some guy."

Matt smiled and extended his hand, though Peter could clearly feel the 'I'm going to kill you, Spider-Man' vibe coming off of him. "Hi, I'm--"

"You know, who you are isn't important right now," Scott cut in, in his low, team-leader-is-seriously-annoyed voice. Not for the first time, Peter felt sorry for his students. "I'm actually more interested in finding out just who in the hell Peter Parker thinks he is."

Peter held up his hands. "I know, okay? But for one thing, Professor X knows about this, and he's okay with it. And also, can we wait for Hank?"

"No need," Hank called from the out in the hall, sounding cheerful. "One H. McCoy, Ph.D--which, these days, also stands for Pretty Hirsute Dude--present and accounted fo--oh, my stars and garters." 

Hank took in the situation with a glance, then joined Scott in staring at Peter. He didn't look so bouncy anymore. "My young friend, I'm dumbfounded. Why on earth would you think it appropriate to bring a stranger here?"

Okay, so, either Professor X was like God and had a sense of humor that was incomprehensible to mere mortals, or he wanted to let Peter handle this on his own. Whatever. This _so_ was not going as planned.

Peter looked from Matt, who still looked like he wanted to kill him, to Scott, who looked pissed, to Hank, who looked disappointed. He sighed and stepped between them, feeling like an ass. 

"Hank McCoy and Scott Summers, meet Matt Murdock," Peter said, gesturing. "Matt, meet Hank and Scott. And before you two totally freak out," he added with a glance at the X-Men, when Scott's cheeks looked like they were going to match his sunglasses any second, "let me say this another way. Beast and Cyclops, meet Daredevil. And of course you all know I'm Spider-Man."

In the silence that followed, Peter wouldn't have needed Daredevil's powers to hear a pin drop. He wasn't sure what he was expecting--maybe for Scott to say something, since he was the X-Men's fearless leader and all--but Matt startled him. He turned to Hank, smiling.

"Hank _McCoy_? " Matt repeated. "Not the Henry McCoy from Dr. Kim's American Literature class at Columbia about--what, fifteen years ago?"

Hank's eyes widened, and it was only then that Peter noticed he'd found some new glasses. Or some old ones, he guessed, since these didn't seem to fit quite right. "Indeed, the very same! I can't believe I didn't recognize you, Matthew." He returned Matt's smile. "It's good to see you again."

"Small world."

"Seriously!" said Peter. "I go to Columbia now."

"Actually, the world's even smaller than you think," Scott said, and Peter was shocked to see the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. "Matthew Murdock, huh? You got me through one hell of a tough time when I was a kid."

"How so?"

"Long story. Anyway, nice to meet you."

"You too," Matt said as they shook hands. 

Peter couldn't suppress a grin. "So, we good?"

Scott shrugged. "Better, but still confused. What's going on?"

"Well," Peter said slowly, "you know how I've told you what my Uncle Ben said to me, about how, if you have great power, you also have great responsibility?"

Scott and Hank nodded. 

"I've always thought this meant that, like, because I have powers, I'm obligated to do something with them. To be Spider-Man. To be responsible for helping people who _don't_ have abilities like mine." 

Peter stuck his hands in his pockets and looked at his shoes. "But then I started thinking. What about us, the people with 'great power?' Don't we have some kind of responsibility _to each other_ , too? I mean, if not, who does?" he asked.

"And I thought about how great it was when I got to know you guys, and how cool it was to sit and talk with Daredevil, and I wanted--I don't know. To start a group, or something. To give us--and other guys like us, and the older kids here, if you think that'd be okay--a place where we could talk. We could be allies, too, if you want," Peter added, almost as an afterthought.

" _I_ like the idea," Matt said, surprising him again.

But then, again, the room was quiet. _Too_ quiet, and Peter winced. So, he'd made it this far, had Daredevil on his side, and now Hank was going to be mad, or think he was stupid, and Scott was--

Scott was _smiling_ , Peter saw when he dared to glance up. "A hero support group," Scott said, sounding amused. "I'm assuming this is supposed to be our first meeting?" 

Peter nodded.

Scott turned to Hank, who gave an almost imperceptible nod, then looked back at Peter and spread his hands. "All right, we're game. Anyone want a drink?"

"I'll get them," Peter offered. "I know where the kitchen is."

Scott nodded. "Soda's in the fridge, and beer's in the locked refrigerated drawer _by_ the fridge. The combination's two, zero, six, one."

A few minutes later, when Peter came back in the rec room carrying several sodas and a couple of beers on a tray he'd found, he was relieved to see that the mood seemed a lot more relaxed. He set the tray on the coffee table and grabbed a soda, then perched on the armchair nearest Hank, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"--heightened senses," Matt was saying. He was on one end of one of the couches, with Scott at the other end.

"Still," Scott replied. "I mean, when I was blind, you couldn't have paid--"

"You were blind?" Peter blurted out.

Scott shrugged. "For about two years, when I was a teenager. After I started shooting force beams from my eyes, but before they figured out how to control it."

"Force beams?" Matt repeated, sounding interested. "How _do_ you control that?"

"Ruby quartz lenses. I have to wear sunglasses or goggles or a visor constantly. And I can see now," Scott explained, Peter figured for Matt's benefit, "but for awhile, there… That's what I meant, earlier," he added, as he reached for a Coke. "I heard a news special about you when you were in college, Matt. Blind kid from Hell's Kitchen finishes up his freshman year at the head of his class. It gave me the kick in the ass I needed."

Matt laughed. "I feel like I should give you the secret handshake, or something."

"Just pass me notes in Braille," Scott joked, after he'd swallowed. "And hey, do you want a drink? We've got Coke, Diet Coke, Sam Adams…"

After that, the two of them got pretty into a conversation about the lack of engineering books in Braille, or something. Peter turned to Hank, who'd just been sitting there quietly.

"Hey," he said, "you okay?"

Hank looked up and sort of smiled. "Every time I begin to think I know you quite well, Peter Parker, you startle me yet again."

Peter slid down to sit on the floor beside him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean--" Hank cut himself off and clasped his hands in his lap. "Merely that I think this is a splendid idea. Look," he added softly, nodding over at the couch.

Peter followed his gaze. Scott and Matt were facing each other now, each turned slightly, each with a can of Coke in one hand and using their free hands to gesture. With their almost identical postures and the fact that they were both fair-skinned white guys with brownish hair (granted, Matt's was more red than brown), both wearing sunglasses with reddish lenses (Scott's were redder), it was funny. 

"They look like bookends," Peter whispered, trying not to snicker.

Of course, Matt heard, but he didn't seem annoyed. Just flipped the bird good-naturedly in Peter's direction before going back to talking about whatever.

"We don't," Hank observed. "To put it mildly."

Peter winced. "Doesn't matter."

"Actually, it does," Hank said with a sigh. He shifted slightly, pulled one knee up and hooked his hands over it. "I meant to tell you last night, Peter, that I've resigned."

For a second, this didn't compute. "Resigned? From the _X-Men_?"

"From Columbia. As of yesterday, I am neither a student nor a member of the faculty any longer."

It was computing, now, but Peter desperately wished it wasn't. "You can't!" he exclaimed. "I mean, did they _fire_ you, or threaten you, just because--? Because that's--"

"No," Hank said softly, studying the floor. "I didn't wish to give them the opportunity. They are ignorant of the truth," he added. "I told the dean nothing more than that I'd suffered an accident and would, regrettably, be forced to take my leave."

Peter blinked. Swallowed. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper, and he took a gulp of Coke that did nothing to help. "Are you sure?" he asked at last. "I mean, can't you--"

"Can I not what? Stand in front of a class and lecture, appearing as I do? Grade papers with fingers that cannot manipulate a pen? Endure--" Hank broke off and shook his head. "All of this is beside the point. My decision has been made. I merely wished to tell you."

Peter clamped his mouth shut and looked at his lap, trying not to think about what school would be like without Hank. "I--" He sighed. "Thanks. It's better than finding out from a sign on the door, I guess."

"Well. Broaching the subject was not _entirely_ altruistic on my part, I must confess," Hank said slowly. 

When Peter looked up, Hank gave him a sad sort of half-smile. "I had planned to ask you under happier circumstances, but…would you like to be my teaching assistant, Peter? I have already completed the necessary paperwork, and I took the liberty of looking up your personal information on the university database. All it would require is your signature."

"But…why?" Peter asked, confused. "I mean, if you aren't going to be teaching?"

"No, I wouldn't. _You_ would be," Hank explained. "Dr. Weinstein has agreed to take over Advanced Genetics and Cellular Physiology of Disease, the classes in which you're enrolled, but she simply doesn't have the time to shoulder my sections of Introduction to Molecular and Cellular Biology or Introduction to Genetics. Unfortunately, all of the other faculty members and graduate students in the department have scheduling conflicts or lack the time, as well."

"I couldn't teach!"

Hank smiled. "Well, I think otherwise. And when I spoke to Dean Richards about it, she agreed that my best student would be a suitable choice, at least until they hire someone to replace me. She would not, however, agree to pay you the equivalent of a graduate student's teaching fellowship. Instead, should you accept, you'll receive only the standard undergraduate T.A. hourly rate, despite the fact that you'll be teaching rather than assisting. I hope that's satisfactory? I would consider it a favor."

Peter could only stare. Too many thoughts were swirling around in his head, too quickly, and he was getting dizzy. He spat out the first words he could wrap his tongue around. "But, Hank, I don't _want_ to!" he exclaimed, surprised by both his volume and his vehemence. 

"I don't _want_ to teach _your_ classes, not when I'm Spider-Man, and you're you, but nobody knows it about me, and--" 

He stopped, breathing hard, and mashed his forehead into the heel of one hand, like that could hold his brain in before it started leaking out his ears. "I don't want to pass if you can't anymore," Peter muttered. "It's not _fair_."

Hank's face went blank, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Matt beat him to it.

"That bugs me, too, sometimes," Matt said, and Peter flushed. He hadn't realized the guys on the couch were listening. "Across the board. I live every day pretending to abide by the rules of the legal system, pretending to be _a part_ of the system, and then go out at night and take justice into my own hands. I can pass as sighted if I have to--and I do, as Daredevil--and that feels like such a betrayal of the part of myself that identifies as blind." 

Matt let out a bitter little half-laugh and shook his head. "And _then_ , I feel dishonest identifying _as_ blind in the first place, when my abilities do so much to compensate. Every second of my life, in costume or out of it, is a lie."

"Not right now," Hank pointed out gently, "among friends."

"I guess not." Matt turned to Peter and gave him a rueful look. "But I do know what you mean."

"So do I," said Scott. "I can pass, but my options are: blast people to smithereens, or pass as a weird guy--no offense--wearing shades indoors or outside when it's cloudy. The _only_ time I don't have to deal with people giving me strange looks is outside when the sun's out. And even so, when I look at some of our kids, sometimes it feels too easy."

"Until Tuesday, I struggled with this selfsame issue, as well," Hank said. "I was a bit odd-looking, but few people gave me a second glance."

"Well, when I pass, people think I'm a total geek," Peter mumbled, feeling even guiltier. He gulped his Coke, then swallowed a burp and hoped it wouldn't turn into a fart in a minute, not with Matt and his super-nose sitting right over there.

Hank grinned and clapped his hand on Peter's shoulder. "My dear friend, you _are_ a total geek."

"People don't think Spider-Man is, though," Peter pointed out. 

Matt snorted. "I did."

Peter ignored him. "Sometimes I wish I could just get it over with," he said, mostly to the floor. "Tell everybody. Stop worrying about trying to go to class and getting good grades and having a job and keeping my secret and everything and just… _be_ Spider-Man. I mean, what's the point of getting an education if I'm _always_ going to do this?"

"Why bother?" Matt took a drink, then gestured with his soda can. "Because the pay sucks. And I haven't tried, but I'd assume trying to get insurance when you put 'costumed vigilante' as your occupation would be next to impossible."

Scott laughed. "As it is, doesn't your insurance company question the amount of injuries you get?"

"Nope. I 'run into' things a lot," Matt replied. "My friend Foggy is constantly appalled at what a klutz I am." He paused for a minute, then shook his head. "Man. Sometimes I do think I should tell him and, like you said, Peter, just get it over with."

"I got to that point with my ex-girlfriend," Peter said. "I'd loved her since grade school, but…after awhile, I had to choose. Tell her I'd been lying to her for over a year, that I hadn't trusted her, or break up with her in order to _keep_ lying to her." He shrugged. "I thought at least breaking up would keep her safe."

"That's the thing, though. You can't just 'break up' with your best friend _and_ business partner." Matt sighed. "Something to think about. And God, it's time for a beer."

Scott took 'em down (well, off the table) and passed 'em around, even to Peter. The room went quiet again--but not necessarily a bad kind of quiet, this time--as they opened bottles and backed slowly and carefully away from the heavy stuff.


	10. Sharks and Bears and Frogs! Oh My!

"So," Matt said a few minutes later, "that's a pool table over there, right? Who's up for it?"

A slow, feral grin spread across Scott's face. "I'd play," he said casually. "Hank? Peter? We could have teams."

Peter looked at Hank, who shrugged. "I'll participate if you'd like to," Hank said.

"Sure, why not?" Peter smiled as he stood up. "How do you want to do this? X-Men versus   
New York vigilantes? Shirts versus skins? Or scientists versus sunglasses?"

"I'm not stripping," Matt said. "How about me and Hank against the two of you?"

Peter frowned. He had a feeling Scott was a real pool shark, and while he wasn't _great_ at pool, or anything, at least he could see, and he didn't have paws. He was just opening his mouth to suggest switching when Hank nodded, wearing a funny little smile Peter couldn't quite decipher.

"I think that would be most satisfactory."

While Peter racked the balls, the other guys decided that they'd take turns according to age, which meant he was first. He took a cue from the holder on the wall, put chalk on the tip (he still didn't know why people did that, except that it looked cool), and then leaned down, lining up his shot.

The balls broke with a loud clacking sound, and the solid yellow one rolled toward the far left corner pocket. It hesitated for just a second, wavering, before dropping in. 

"All right!" Peter exclaimed. It looked like he could get the purple solid one in, too--it was hanging out in the middle of the table, almost lined up with the center pockets, and the cue ball was at a pretty good angle to push it in. 

He went around to the side of the table, lined it up, shot, and watched the purple ball bounce off the edge and roll right back to the middle. "Rats," he muttered.

Scott smiled, then took a swig of his beer. "Don't worry about it," he said quietly.

Across the table, Matt and Hank had their heads together.

"--a grid?" Hank was saying.

"No. Just in rows, starting at the far left."

"Oh. Very well. 12, striped. 14, striped. 6, solid. Next row, below those: 8, solid…" Hank went on naming the balls, and after a second, Peter realized that he was describing the layout of the table to Matt. He wondered, as Matt stepped up to take his turn a minute later, why they'd bothered. 

As if sensing his thought, Matt turned to him and Scott. "Okay if I call these?" Without waiting for an answer, he lined up a shot. "13-ball, side pocket." The ball went in. "9-ball, corner pocket." Swoosh. (Or clack, roll, rattle down inside the table. Whatever.) "10-ball, corner pocket." Swoosh.

He sank all but one of the stripes before he missed, and even that was close--the 12-ball bounced between the rails by one of the corner pockets before deciding not to go in.

"Dammit," Matt said as he straightened up, wearing a really smug grin. "I must be out of practice."

Peter was certain his cheeks were burning. Thank _God_ he hadn't doubted Matt's abilities aloud! Hank looked like he was trying to hide a laugh by taking a drink of his beer, which told Peter two things: one, Hank had known--or at least guessed--what his teammate was capable of, and two, that the look on Peter's face was saying a lot.

Scott didn't look too fazed, though. He studied the table for a second, head tilted slightly, before nodding to himself and leaning over. "Okay, we're calling shots, now?" he asked.

Matt grinned. "Go for it."

"Will do," Scott said. "And just to make it a little _more_ interesting… Peter's got the one, so, two-ball, corner pocket." Swoosh. "Three-ball, side pocket." Swoosh. Of course. "Four-ball, corner pocket. Five, side pocket. Six-ball, side pocket. Seven, corner pocket."

Peter was pretty sure his jaw was somewhere around his knees when Scott called--and of course sank--the eight-ball. Then he turned to the rest of them, totally poker-faced. "Want to play again?"

Hank held up his hands, still looking amused. "I'm content to observe, this time, thank you."

"Me too," Peter said.

But Matt was grinning like a cat who'd just discovered a ten-pound turkey in the canary cage. "Oh, you're _on_."

While they were hashing out what game to play--one that didn't involve knowing what the numbers were--Peter snagged his still-half-full beer and went over to lean against the wall beside Hank. "So," he said, "we cheering, or heckling?"

Hank smiled. "How _would_ one heckle in billiards, I wonder?"

"Like this." Peter nodded at Scott, who was bending over the table, giving them a clear view of the back of his jeans. "Cyclops got a _big_ butt! Cyclops got a _big_ butt!" He waggled his own hips for emphasis.

On the other side of the table, Matt nearly spit out his beer. And now Hank was getting into it, shaking with suppressed laughter. "I suppose I'm cheering, then," he murmured. Then, louder, _with_ gestures, "Scott wields his staff, wooden and thick! Break those balls, Scott, with your stick!"

That did it. Beer was officially coming out of Daredevil's nose. Scott kept trying to line up a shot, but Peter could see the end of his cue quivering. Hank didn't quit.

"Beast has got the muscles, _and_ he's got the brains, but Scott has the enormous stick, and _whoo_ , he'll win the game!"

Scott turned slowly, red-faced. " _Beast_ …"

"Oh, very well, I'll desist."

Actually, once Scott and Matt got down to business, there was nothing funny about it. They both made the professional pool players Peter sometimes saw on TV look silly. 

After they'd each won a game, Scott polished off his beer, then glanced at his watch. "Shit," he said, "Jean and Ororo and the kids are supposed to be home pretty soon."

"That reminds me," Peter said, "did _all_ the kids go?" Now that he thought about it, it was really weird for Xavier's to be this quiet.

Scott shook his head. "Most of them--this is the first fun trip they've had in awhile--but a couple of them don't like to leave," he said. "They're making a fort in the attic, I think. But once the other kids get back, after hitting the food court _and_ having movie snacks, it's going to be a zoo."

Matt brushed his fingers over the face of his watch and winced. "I should get back soon, anyway. I'm supposed to call Foggy and figure out when we're meeting tomorrow."

"Okay, well," Peter said, sliding his hands in his back pockets, "I guess we should wrap it up. What do you guys think? Should we do this again?"

"Do you really have to ask?" Scott shook his head in surprise while Matt and Hank nodded their agreement. "All I was wondering was, what should we call this group?"

Hank thought for a minute, then shrugged. "What about S.H.I.E.L.D.? 'Super Heroes Interacting in order to Ease Life's Difficulties?'"

Peter frowned. "That's kind of long, Hank. I was thinking more like, Superheroes Anonymous. 'S.A.'"

"I believe 'S.A.' is already in use," Hank replied.

"Isn't that Smokers Anonymous?" Matt asked.

"As a matter of fact, I'm fairly certain it's Sexaholics Anonymous. Besides, is the point of this organization not to _cease_ to be anonymous?"

Peter snorted. "Okay, maybe not."

"Do we really _need_ a name?" Matt asked as he fitted his pool cue back into the rack on the wall. "It's not like we're going to put up recruitment posters."

"That's another thing," Scott said, leaning against the pool table. "Who else are we going to invite? I mean, obviously, Jean and 'Ro…"

"Definitely them," Peter agreed. "And I was thinking, maybe a couple of the older kids? Like that one, Bobby? He seemed--" he broke off, surprised, when both Hank and Scott started shaking their heads.

"No way," Scott said. "At least, not yet."

"I concur. Consider, Peter, what an enormous responsibility the simple act of entering this room bestows upon an individual. Now we are responsible not only for keeping our own identities secret, but the identities of our friends, as well. It is a burden worth bearing, but a burden nonetheless."

Peter nodded. "All right. Then I got nothing."

"Nor do I," Hank said.

"I might know a few people who'd be into this," Matt said slowly. "Finding out would involve _coming_ out, but…I'll think about it. I think one or two of them, in particular, might really welcome the opportunity to hang out like this."

After a moment of everyone standing around looking at each other sort of awkwardly, Peter cleared his throat. "Well, I guess we'd better."

"Actually, Peter," Hank said, "I realize that Matt has other plans this evening, but would you perchance like to stay?"

"Um." Peter frowned as he thought it over. He would, but--

"Why don't you?" said Scott. "I can give Matt a ride back to the city, no problem. And it'd be good--Warren's coming back late tonight from a business trip in Boston. We could ask him to join."

He could feel himself waffling. "But I shouldn't--"

"I can patrol outside the Kitchen tonight so you can take the night off, if that's what you're worried about," Matt offered. "Consider it payback for lunch, and everything. Or just do the same for me sometime."

Peter's face felt like it was going to crack from the effort he was putting into not grinning as much as he wanted to. Starting this group was the best idea _ever_. "That'd be awesome," he said. Then he turned to Hank and shrugged. "I guess I'm staying."

Hank's smile was as broad as the one Peter had been trying to suppress.

\----

He and Hank had walked Matt and Scott to the door, where they'd all stood there awkwardly _again_ , and Peter had wondered if the 'to hug, or not to hug?' question was on everyone's mind. They'd ended up shaking hands instead, which was good, he guessed. Manly. After that, Hank had led the way upstairs to his room.

"Well," Hank said as sat on the edge of his bed. It was new, Peter noticed, and big. The antique, wooden twin-sized beds that used to be in this room were nowhere to be seen. "That went incredibly well, I think."

"I know!" Peter exclaimed. "I mean, I was a little worried at first, but man. That was awesome."

Hank looked up at him. "If I may ask, though…you were not entirely thorough when giving your reasons for starting the group, were you."

It wasn't really a question, but, after hesitating a second, Peter shook his head anyway, looking more at the floor than at Hank. "Not exactly. Is that okay? I mean, I don't want you to be offended, or anything, but I thought--I just sort of wanted to _do_ someth--"

"Peter." When he shut up and looked up, he found that Hank had stood up and was right in front of him. And smiling. Without another word, Hank reached out and wrapped him in a very big, very tight bear hug. And it was really _like_ being hugged by a bear, what with the fur and all. 

Peter hugged back without hesitation and fought a crazy urge to say 'I love you.' Even if--though?--he did, a lot, he wasn't sure if that was the sort of thing you said when your face was smooshed into your best friend's shoulder. _Naked_ shoulder, at that, even if it was furry.

After Hank let him go, they both went to sit on the bed--Hank sideways, cross-legged, and Peter with his sneakers toed off and his back against the wall. 

"You have yet to give me an answer about the teaching assistantship," Hank said. "I hate to rush your decision, but--"

Peter groaned and scrubbed a hand over his hair. "I'm going to hate it if I do it," he said flatly. "I really _was_ serious about not wanting to do this whole double life thing anymore."

Hank was quiet a minute. Then, "Would you like to hear my opinion on the matter?"

"Sure," Peter said, shrugging. "I guess."

"I don't believe it is a decision you're truly prepared to make," Hank said. Then he sighed. "Trust me, my friend. While I do think a sense of relief will come in time, at the moment, I am consumed with regret. Regret that I did not use my time more wisely, that I did not do _more_ , that I did not take advantage of the opportunities available to me when I could pass as a normal man." 

He shook his head. "Peter, I didn't have a choice, but you do. Should you choose to reveal yourself to the public, please remember that the decision can be made precisely _one_ time. There is no going back."

The worst part about it was, Peter had a sneaking suspicion Hank was right. He sighed and let his head clunk back against the wall. "Dammit. I just don't know."

"If it makes you feel any better," Hank said quietly, tracing a seam on his quilt with one thick fingertip, "I am not _entirely_ out of the closet, myself. I have been weighing the pros and cons of continuing to publish as Dr. Henry McCoy, human, formerly of Columbia University, and letting it be known that, due to a debilitating or disfiguring accident, I will not again appear in public."

"Jeez," Peter said, "that'd suck. What about conferences and stuff?"

"What about them?" Hank snorted. "Considering the topic of my research, do you think anyone would take me as seriously? 'Mutant scientist studies mutations! Obviously _he_ has an agenda.'"

Peter frowned. "I don't know, Hank. I mean, I had a women's studies class my freshman year, and it was taught by a female professor. I took _her_ seriously."

"The general public doesn't think having two X chromosomes is a disease that ought to be cured. The X-gene, on the other hand…"

Peter remembered suggesting just that to Jean, about Hank, and winced. "You're never going to try to change yourself back, are you," he said. "For just that reason."

"For all your indecision, I notice that you see your choices thus: to be Spider-Man exclusively, or to be Spider-Man, whose alter ego is Peter Parker," Hank replied. "Not once have you mentioned the third option: to live only as Peter Parker, either with your abilities, or without them, if they could be removed."

"I don't think I know _how_ to just be Peter Parker anymore," Peter admitted quietly. "I don't know who I _am_ , Hank. That's the problem."

Downstairs, kids were chattering excitedly as they got home from their trip. A couple sets of footsteps thundered upstairs. After a minute, he looked at Hank. Saw him extend one hand, fingers flexed, and stare at the back of it for a moment before his chest expanded with a deep breath. 

"Would it surprise you to know, Peter, that I don't, either?" Then Hank turned his hand palm-up and met Peter's gaze. Smiled a little. "' _I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too?_ '"

Despite himself, Peter huffed a laugh. "What's that from? Dr. Seuss?"

Hank closed his eyes and shook his head, seeming somewhere between amused and horrified. "Emily Dickinson. Though, come to think of it, I suppose Dr. Seuss could provide us with some interesting and relevant questions. 'Would you unmask in the rain? On a boat, or on a train?'"

Peter grinned. "In a car, or in a bar?"

"With your friends; in front of foes? Only with costumed heroes?" Hank chuckled as he bounced off the bed, twisted a little, and landed on his feet, facing Peter. "And do you want to eat nachos?"

"Are you serious, or just rhyming?"

"As serious as one can be, when writing a Seuss-parody. And so, dear friend, what will it be? Pizza or nachos--or both!--for thee?" Hank wiggled his eyebrows, looking pleased with himself.

"Okay, better question--are you going to do this _all_ night?"

Hank gave him a long, considering look over the top of his glasses. "Nope."

"Just wondering," Peter said, trying hard not to laugh. "And I think pizza _and_ nachos, definitely. And oh, hey!" he exclaimed as he followed Hank out, still just in sock-feet. "Want to finish _The Secret of the Ooze_?"


	11. Not with a bang, but a beginning

Seven-fifteen on a Monday morning was _way_ the hell too early to be awake, let alone out of bed, dressed, and on campus. It didn't help that Peter was severely under-caffeinated and in a crappy mood, which the weather matched perfectly. Cold and wet _again_ , as if the sunshine over the weekend needn't have bothered.

Peter's shoes were all squelchy, his glasses were fogged up, his cheap coffee was weak, and by the time he arrived at Hank's office door, he wasn't sure he could have felt worse if he wanted to. That is, until he caught sight of the comic strips Hank had cut out and taped all over the door, and his heart climbed a notch higher in his throat. He bowed his head, unlocked the door, and went in.

He didn't know whether to feel grateful or not that Jean and Scott had come yesterday to clean up and get some of Hank's stuff. It was good that he didn't have to see the broken coffee pot again, or Hank's blood, or anything. Bad, though, because each empty spot on the wall where one of Hank's diplomas or awards or pictures had hung made it that much more real.

The computer was (souped up) university property, so it had stayed. So had Hank's Star Wars saga desktop wallpaper, Peter saw when he turned it on. Seeing that made it a little easier to pull up Hank's chair and sit down at Hank's desk to check his email.

He had a bunch of new messages. Of course, there was the usual spam, spam, spammity-spam, penis-enlarging spam, get-a-Playstation spam. But, to Peter's surprise, there was one from Hank, which he opened right away.

_From: h.mccoy@xaviers.edu_  
To: pbp497@columbia.edu  
Subject: use the force, luke 

_you left your socks here_  
twinkies in bottom left drawer  
call me after class 

_\- h_

Peter read the note twice, trying not to think about how _long_ it must have taken Hank to type it. But Hank had anyway, for no reason except to cheer him up. And it worked. Peter smiled and fished a package of Twinkies out of the box in the drawer, then saluted the screen and took a big bite. Maybe it was the sugar, or something, but he would have sworn his coffee tasted better now, too.

By eight o'clock, though, his newfound cheerfulness had vanished, replaced by plain old gut-wrenching stage fright. Peter stood at the front of Hamilton 112 and tried to look smart, look older, and smile confidently, all at the same time, as students trickled in. He had a feeling he just ended up looking strained and like he was grimacing, but there wasn't much he could do about that.

8:03, and the room looked pretty full, so Peter went over and shut the door, then took a deep breath and turned to face the class. "Um. Hi. You're all here for Dr. McCoy's Intro to Molecular and Cellular Biology class?"

A few kids nodded, but most of them looked either bored, half-asleep, or like they were eyeing the door because Hank wasn't there. Great. 

"Okay. Good. I'm Peter Parker." Peter pointed to where he'd written his name in big green letters on the whiteboard. "You can call me Peter. I'm a junior biochem major, and I'm--" 

He swallowed, steeling himself to say these words out loud. "I'm going to be covering a few of Dr. McCoy's classes until they hire someone to replace him."

"You mean he's not coming _back_?" called someone from the middle of the room.

Peter groaned inwardly. He thought the mass email Hank's students had gotten--the one saying that classes would resume Monday--had explained. "Uh, no, he isn't," he replied. "Now, you guys were supposed to have a review session Wednesday and a test Friday, right? I was thinking we could review tod--"

"What happened?" interrupted a girl with curly red hair. "Do you know?"

"Did he get fired?" a guy with a fauxhawk and leather jacket asked. "I mean, dude, that's--"

"Is he sick?"

"He didn't _die_ , did he?"

It took every bit of self-control Peter had to keep his poker face on. "I--um." 

Then a familiar-looking girl in the front row raised her hand, but she might as well have been throwing him a life preserver. Peter pointed to her a little more enthusiastically than was probably necessary. "Yes! Do you have something you'd like to review, Miss…?"

"Rao. Kavita Rao." She pushed her glasses up and seemed to hesitate for a second before she continued. "And sorry, this isn't a review question. I heard over the weekend that Dr. McCoy left because he--because he's a mutant," she said, almost whispering. Her dark eyes were huge as she studied Peters face. "Do you know if it's true?"

Poker face. Poker face, poker face, poker face. Poker. Face. 

It was almost funny. In all the time he'd been Spider-Man, Peter had never once had to flat-out _lie_ about it. He had never said, 'No. I'm not Spider-Man.' And it was funny that lying about this stuff--outright lying, not just lying by omission, or lying to make excuses--was turning out to be just as hard as telling the truth.

The whole room seemed to be on pause, waiting for Peter's response. He exhaled, then slowly shook his head and tried to look surprised and skeptical. "Well, _I_ haven't heard that rumor," he said, "but I bet that's all it is--a rumor. I'm pretty sure Dr. McCoy is _not_ a mutant." He forced a smile. "I mean, come on. Dr. McCoy probably gave somebody a bad grade, and the next thing you know, ooh, he's a mutant!"

Somebody laughed, and a bunch of the students were nodding, giving him relieved smiles. And that should have made Peter feel great. They'd bought it, right? Hank's secret was safe, and Peter Parker could lie convincingly when he had to. For some reason, though, he felt worse than before. Maybe it was the way that girl, Kavita, had looked when she asked--like she'd heard a rumor Hank had AIDS, or terminal cancer. 

Maybe it was _because_ so many of them looked relieved. Peter couldn't tell if they were happy _for_ Hank because he wasn't a mutant, or if they were glad that they hadn't been in the same room with a mutant, or what. Come to think of it, he wasn't sure which of those would be worse.

The 'why' didn't matter, though. Peter knew what he had to do. Very deliberately, he set the review sheet Hank had given him on the podium. Then he got the stool some of the professors kept in the corner in case they wanted to sit and put it right in front of the students. Perched on it and looked around the room.

The closet was Hank's, but this, right now, this very great responsibility, was Peter's alone.

"Close your books, guys," he announced. "We'll review on Wednesday. This morning, I think there's something else we should discuss. Let's talk about mutations."

A couple of people looked like he'd just suggested colonizing Mars, or something, so Peter hurried to explain. "Dr. McCoy may not be a mutant, but what about people who are?" he asked. "I mean, for all you know, _I_ could be. Maybe some of _you_ are."

"Dude, I _saw_ a mutant, once. You can tell," said Fauxhawk.

"Can you?" Peter asked. "Are you sure? And even if you could tell--like, if we had somebody with a tail here at school--does that give us the right to treat them differently? To discriminate?"

"Of course not!" Kavita exclaimed, sounding shocked. She didn't bother to raise her hand, this time. "They can't _help_ it."

"Actually," said a blond guy slouched in the back row, "I wouldn't care if mutants went here. It's a free country, right?"

"Yeah, but would you want to _room_ with one?" somebody else asked.

"Not if they were dangerous," said the red-haired girl. "But--"

Peter tried not to smile as the room became more alive than he'd _ever_ seen an eight o'clock class be, before. Even if he didn't agree with all--or even most--of their views, at least the kids were _talking_ about this stuff, and thinking about it. And if they felt comfortable talking about mutants with Peter Parker, regular guy, just one of them…well, maybe that was okay. 

At ten 'til nine, everyone was still so into it that he actually had to clap his hands and yell to tell them class was over. That was pretty cool. 

Peter gathered his stuff in a hurry after the students had all filed out, getting ready to make a run for his anatomy and physiology class. He paused, though, when he saw that a folded scrap of notebook paper had been slipped under the review sheet on the podium. He opened it.

' _ONE OF US IS_ ,' was written on it in tiny, precise capital letters. ' _THANK YOU. '_

And that? That was _awesome_.


End file.
